Lost and Found (32 page)

I feel the first tears sliding out from under the mask.

"It's okay . . ." she speaks in a whisper. "Release the emotion with the tension. Let it all go."

"I . . . I can't . . ."

"Just let it go. Relax."

Her hands are warm on my shoulders as she attempts to soothe me with her voice.

"No . . . No more . . ." I pull the mask off my eyes and bolt upright. "
No!
" Sitting up on the table, I pull the sheet close to cover myself. "I'm done."

She puts her hand on my forearm, but says nothing.

I reach for her hand and throw it off. The force of it causes her to stumble back. "I said I'm done!" I swing my legs over the side of the table, wrap the sheet around me, and stand up. "Get your things, now." I go into my dressing area, where I grab my own robe from my closet. I drop the sheet and slip into the robe. My hands shake as I tie the belt tight.

I bend, pick up the sheet, and return to the bedroom, where I throw the sheet across her table. "Get"—my voice shakes like my hands—"your things and show yourself out." I push the words through clenched teeth. "Now!" Then I walk back into the bathroom and slam the door behind me. I sit on the edge of the large jetted tub, wrap my arms around myself, and let the tears come.

There's no stopping them now.

Self-love hides in many places, and God alone can find them all out.

JEANNE GUYON

SHE REACHES INTO
the pocket of her St. John cardigan and removes her vibrating cell phone. She looks at the name on the screen. "Yes, Hannah . . ."

"Madame, I got the information you requested. Access to Jenna's computer."

"You did?"

"Yes, I downloaded the information to a flash drive and I've just e-mailed it to you along with her passwords."

"Fine."

"There is something else, Madame . . ."

She walks to the large bay window in the living room and looks out over the vineyard as she listens.

"Jenna was gone most of Saturday. She left late in the morning in a cab. I don't know where she went. But when she returned, after dark, she was with a man."

"A man?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Who? What man?"

"I don't know."

"Fine, Hannah. Merci. Job well done." She smiles.

"Perfect. E-mail it all to me. Good work, Hannah. Merci."

She walks to the antique desk where her laptop sets and looks for the new files Hannah is e-mailing. "Ah . . . there you are." She turns away from the desk and goes to the small bar on the other side of the living area and takes a crystal flute from one of the shelves above, then she reaches for the bottle of
Domaine de la Bouvier Reserve Pinot Noir Brut
that Estelle has chilling in a bucket on the countertop. She pops the cork, and laughs at the sound of it. She fills the flute and then lifts the glass in the air. "To me."

She takes a sip of the champagne and then, glass in hand, heads back to the desk, where she sits for an evening of reading.

If you ever saw how deeply corrupt you really were, all your courage to reform yourself would run away in terror.

JEANNE GUYON

WHEN I EMERGE
from the bathroom, eyes swollen and tears spent, at least for the moment, I walk through the bedroom and notice the massage chick left her card and a note tucked into the mirror of my dresser. "Your bill, I assume?"

I pull the card and note from the frame of the mirror and read:
Andee, today was on me. Call anytime, I'd love to work with you.

"Thanks for nothing." I crumple the note and stuff it, along with her card, into the pocket of my robe. I go to the living room and stand in front of the plate-glass windows and watch as lights begin to flicker across the city and bay. I look toward Alameda Island and anger, like a herd of charging elephants, crashes through the walls I've constructed.

The view of the island that I determined would remind me where I came from and where I'd never be again, now just agitates. Since the night I told Jason of the rape, the anger has pawed and snorted, and kicked up dust.

Tonight, the stampede rages.

If I hadn't gone home that night . . .

If I'd been stronger, screamed louder, pushed harder . . .

I pound my fists against the thick glass.

Idiot!

Since that fateful night, I determined I'd live strong, scream loud, push hard, demand cooperation, and control circumstances. I'd bully my way through life. And I'd protect myself along the way. Nothing. No one. Would take me down again.

Now, I realize, the one I've bullied the most is myself.

Hot tears run down my cheeks and I pound the glass again and again.

I pushed away what I wanted . . . needed most. I'm an idiot!

I think again of that moment of realization at Gerard's funeral—the moment of recognizing Brigitte's aloneness. Why didn't I learn? No, I was given a glimpse of my future and instead of turning from it and changing, I ran headlong into it.

I turned my anger on myself and sabotaged my life. But not just my own, oh no, I took Jason and his family down with me.

What is wrong with me?

And now, I'm alone.

Who, tonight, is more alone than me?

No one.

I've seen to that.

Brigitte still has Jenna. Under her thumb? Yes, but at least she is a living, breathing presence in her life.

I think of Jason again . . . and the anger turns to an unbearable ache. The lump in my throat burns and my heart shatters like glass. This is the exact pain I've worked so hard to avoid. Yet, the path I forged was a direct route to destruction.

"Idiot!"

Sam hisses from the sofa behind me.

I turn, look at him, and hiss back. "Shut up!" Then I crumple to my knees, my robe spread around me, and I cry. I sob. I fall from my knees and lay facedown on the floor, I turn my head, lay my cheek against the carpet, and soak it with my tears. I pound my fists on the floor and then pull handfuls of the long shag carpet, yanking as hard as I can.

The aching void within screams for attention.

And my soul bleeds.

Nice going, Andee.

After awhile, I quiet.

I lie on the floor and soon I feel Sam's tail brush against my face and then his rough tongue on my cheek as he licks my remaining tears. I roll over on my back and he climbs onto my chest and kneads me with his paws. Then he lies down on my chest and licks my chin.

"Sam, get a grip," I mumble.

He looks at me with those ice blue eyes and begins to purr.

"Seriously, we both really need to get a grip." I bury my hand in his fur and we lie that way until I feel the strength to pull myself up off the floor.

"Way to have a pity party, huh Sam?"

But I know it was more than that. Like a red flag waving, the anger, the tears, the ache of loneliness, they all warn me there are things I need to pay attention to. Finally.

I wander first to the bathroom, where I wash my swollen face. Then to the kitchen, where I start for the espresso maker, but think better of it. Maybe this is my first change. Maybe I need something a little less stimulating. I search my kitchen cabinets and find a box of green antioxidant tea. "That'll do."

I put a mug under the instant hot water spout at my sink, fill it, open the box of tea, and drop a bag into the mug. Then I go sit at my desk. I play with the string on the tea bag, lifting the bag in and out of the water, while I rest my other hand on the computer mouse and watch the screen light up. I pull the tea bag out of the water, wrap the string around it, and squeeze the remaining water into the mug. Then I toss the bag in the wastebasket under my desk. I lift the cup to my lips, take a sip, and . . . spit the tea in an arc of spray across my computer screen and desk. "What is that?" I look into the mug and sniff. "Antioxidant? This'll kill me!" I stomp to the kitchen, dump the contents of the mug down the drain, and head for the espresso maker.

I come back to my desk with a steaming cup of espresso—and a rag to mop up the mess.
There's always tomorrow
. . . I settle back in, sip my espresso, and stare at the screen on my desk for a long time. Thoughts of Jason continue to nag. I take a deep breath, and this time I force myself to stay with the thoughts.

I recall the thought that came to me like a voice from the cosmos that afternoon in Napa:
Jason's a keeper. Hang onto him.

A voice from the cosmos? Or could it have been the voice of God? Like Lightseeker hears? "Yeah, right."

But maybe . . .

What does it matter now? I didn't listen. Hang onto him? No, I betrayed him. I lean my elbows on the desk and put my head in my hands and sigh.

Lightseeker.

I think of her e-mails to me—her willingness to engage. Maybe I'm not alone. Okay, sure, I don't know her, it's not like a real friend, but hey, besides Sam, she may be all I have left.

I lift my head and rest my hand on the mouse again. I move the cursor on the screen to the icon that opens my Internet browser. I tap the icon and then type in the familiar URL: www.iluminar.me. I read her last post:

Loneliness calls my name. It woos me to believe nothing can fill the cavernous void in my soul . . .

The turmoil you experience is your resistance to what God is seeking to accomplish.

JEANNE GUYON

I TURN MY
head, careful not to move too fast, and look at the clock on my nightstand. Even the slightest movement causes the waves of nausea to swell again. 9:18 a.m. My stomach roils and gurgles. I've kept nothing down since Sunday morning. I've spent more time on the bathroom floor than in bed in the last twenty-four hours.

I hear Hannah tap on my door and then let herself in. She comes to my bed and sets a glass of clear juice on the nightstand. She looks at me and her face reflects what I already know. I'm a mess.

"Sip the juice."

"I . . . can't . . ."

"You sip the juice or you'll end up dehydrated." She places her hand on my forehead, her touch brusque. "No fever." She goes to the bathroom to wash her hands, muttering something about eating in Chinatown.

"It . . . isn't food poisoning."

"Whatever it is, Madame has decided to stay away a few more days. She doesn't want to catch it."

"It's the infection . . . Hannah. The same . . . old thing."

"Then you best call Dr. Bernard."

I don't have the strength to argue. Anyway, it's time for another opinion. Dr. Kim hasn't helped me.

"I'll be back. Drink the juice."

"Wait . . ." I lift my head from my pillow and then regret doing so. "Make . . . the call for me . . . please."

She nods and walks out.

And I fall back into the escape of sleep.

THE NEXT TIME I
look at the clock it's almost 3:00 p.m. I lift my head, wait, and realize my stomach has settled. I sit up, lean back against my pillow, and reach for the glass of juice Hannah left. When I pick it up, it's cold—she's replaced it with a fresh glass while I slept. "Bless you, Hannah." While Hannah's disdain for me is clear, she still does her job.