Stolen (26 page)

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he says
with a shake of his head. “Now get into the car before I make you walk home.”

Those are the magic words to calm me down. I refuse to
be left here or to have to walk all the way home, although I would if that’s
what it took to be free from this place.

“So where are we headed?” I ask after I notice he
drove past the street that would take us to my house.

“There’s a place I want to take you before I take you
home. Is that okay with you?” he asks nervously. Why is he so nervous all of a
sudden?

“I don’t care where you take me, so long as it isn’t
anywhere near the loony bin.”

The drive is quiet, but with Bruce, that’s okay. I
thought when I was released into the real world I’d want as much noise as
possible after being locked up all day with nothing but the sounds in my head,
but this is calming. Everything with Bruce is always so calming.

Twenty minutes go by before Bruce makes a left turn
onto a gravel road. I don’t see anything for a few moments until there are
fewer trees lining the road and the view of a park and just beyond that a pond
come in to focus. There isn’t anyone around that I can see. It’s beautiful
here.

“This is amazing, Bruce. Where are we?” I ask
curiously.

“You don’t recognize it?” he asks with concern.

I think about it for a minute before responding to his
question. “It seems vaguely familiar,” I answer as I look out at the pond, “but
I can’t remember ever being here, so I don’t know how that would be possible.”

Turning my attention from the view of the pond past
the windshield toward Bruce, I see a sadness in his eyes unlike I’ve ever seen
on anyone before. “Why do you look so sad, Bruce?”

Evading my question he tells me to follow him, that he
wants to talk to me, but that it would be better down by the water. I follow
nervously, having no doubts that I’m not going to like this talk.

“Do you remember anything after Cass’s funeral, or I
guess I should say what you thought was Rogan’s funeral?” He corrects himself.

There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t speak past so
I shake my head instead.

“I picked you up from the church, and I brought you
here, hoping it would calm you down.” He pauses to let me process what he’s
just said, but it’s useless. I don’t remember any of that, which must be what
my face is portraying based on his disappointed expression.

“You stripped out of your clothes,” he continues on
with a story that feels like it’s about someone else, “jumping into the pond,
swimming for what felt like hours. I sat right here on the shore waiting for
you, waiting for when you’d be ready to talk about what happened, but you just
kept on swimming.” His voice drops low, sounding as if he might cry, as if this
story pains him deeply to recollect.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I don’t remember any of this,” I
admit, though I wish I could say otherwise if only to relieve his suffering.

With sympathy in his eyes he reaches for my hand,
holding it gently between his own. Whether reassuring me or him, I can’t tell,
but I don’t pull away because I need all the reassurance I can get right now.
Why is this so hard for him to talk about, to tell me about?

“I was about to come into the water and drag you out,
you had been out there far too long. That’s when I realized I couldn’t see you.
I couldn’t spot you anywhere. I ran up and down this shoreline screaming your
name, but you weren’t responding. I don’t know how I lost you. Maybe if I had
been paying better attention, if I had just been watching you closer . . .” his
voice trails off, his hand holding tighter to mine.

“What happened, Bruce?” I ask in a whisper, not really
wanting to know the answer.

“You—you . . . I—I tried to find you, you have to
believe me. I did everything I could to find you.” His voice is panicked. He’s
sobbing.

“Bruce, please, just tell me what happened. It’s okay,
I’m here now.” I reassure him the best I can.

After a few deep breaths he tries to continue, but his
words come out mumbled from the sobs choking him. The few I can make out say it
all . . . drowning, suicide, almost couldn’t bring me back, breakdown.

I feel empty as I stare down at a hunched over sobbing
Bruce. A man I’ve known as being the strongest person in my world has been made
weak by me, by the actions I had taken. I tried to commit suicide?  I
can’t believe that. I’d never do that or at least I thought I never would. So
that is what led me to the hospital, led me to create a life filled with guilt,
pain, suffering and unbearable loneliness?

“Did I die?” I ask calmly, though tears are flowing
freely down my cheeks.

“Yes, but I brought you back. I’m so sorry, Jess. I
knew you were upset, but I didn’t realize the extent of it. I never should have
let you go out alone. This is my fault, all my fault,” he cries.

Pulling strength from someplace I didn’t know existed,
I comfort him the best I can. “Bruce, I don’t remember any of this, and to be
honest I hope I never do, but what I do remember is waking up safe and protected.
I’m alive because of you. You took care of me, you got me the help I needed.
You have nothing to feel guilty about or to apologize for, I should be the one
apologizing. I can’t believe I’d do that.” My words trail off as if they are as
exhausted as I suddenly am.

Light is beginning to fade, the air is getting cool,
and the cicadas are starting up their tune. No words have been spoke aloud
these past few hours between Bruce and me yet my mind has been anything but
silent. Question after unanswered question go unasked. I don’t know if I’m
ready for the answers, but I know I can’t live in a delusional world any
longer. It’s time to wake up for good.

I can’t be sure who suggested going back to the SUV,
but we’re here now, the interior light switched to a steady ‘on’ as the night
surrounding us grows darker.

Life is happening right now, not life in the hospital
or a life I created in my mind, but real life, my life, and I’m living it
because of the man sitting in front of me and yet he carries so much blame for
the choices I’ve made. I have to make him understand this isn’t his fault.
“Bruce, look at me, please.” I beg.

Finally, his eyes heavy with grief, stare unwaveringly
into my own, causing a shiver to run up my spine for the briefest of moments.
I
can handle this. I have to handle this
. I silently remind myself in an
attempt to control the emotions his eyes are inflicting upon me.

The old me might have run instead of enduring this
pain, but the new me plans to be stronger than the girl I used to be, if not
for my sake than for all those around me who’ve had to endure pain because of
me and the choices I’ve made.

I swallow down the panic rising up my throat,
summoning the Cosmos to help me get through this day, before I attempt to say
what I need to say. “Bruce, I have so many questions I don’t know where to
begin, but first I want you to know that I don’t blame you. Please don’t carry
that guilt with you. I know what it’s like to feel guilty for something that
was out of your control. These past few weeks have enlightened me on the
drastic measures we as human beings will sometimes take to ease our guilt.

“My guilt led me down a road I wouldn’t wish anyone to
travel, especially not you, but I fear that’s exactly what’s happening. You’re
letting this guilt eat you alive. I’m going to be fine, Bruce. It’ll take time,
of course, but I’ll get there, so please, let it go, let the pain go, for me.”

I’ve said all I can say. He has to decide if he’s
going to listen to me or not. I can’t force that on him, just like no one could
force me to face my own truths. I see a barely perceptible nod as he turns his
eyes back to the pond in front of us. I suppose that is enough of an answer for
me, for tonight at least. He and I have a long journey ahead of us if either of
us ever wants to be right in the head again.

“You have questions?” he asks a few minutes later. I
feel bad making him relive what has obviously been a painful time in his life,
but I do have questions. Lots and lots of questions.

“I do.” I answer honestly. “Can I ask them? Are you
ready to answer them?”
Please say yes. Please say yes. I need these answers
like I need the air I’m breathing.
I silently beg.

“I’ll answer as many questions as I can,” he says,
though I can clearly see he wishes he didn’t have to. Maybe he thought he could
bring me here and I’d remember it without any help from him. Maybe he was
hoping for that. I hate making him suffer, but I need the answers my brain
doesn’t seem willing to reveal to me.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I contemplate my first
question. “Is Cass really dead, and is Rogan really alive?”

“Yes, and yes. Cass went home with Luke the day he was
killed, but you couldn’t process that, which is what eventually led to your
breakdown.”

“How did it happen? Do you think she suffered?” I
choke on the words, the thought of Cass in pain too much to handle.

“When I found Cass, her body was lying over Luke’s, as
if she had tried to protect him from being shot. She was shot in the back, but
I think it was fast. So, no, I don’t think she suffered. She was a good person.
You should be proud of her,” he says softly.

I know she was a good person, the best person I knew,
that’s why this is so wrong. She shouldn’t be dead. “Wait a minute,” I say as I
process his comment that he’d been at the scene. “You were there?”

“Yes,” he says disappointedly, obviously upset that I
can’t remember. “That was how I got involved in the case. After I broke the
news to your mom, she came with Rogan to the station so I could get a report
from him about what had happened that day with Luke and his uncle and anything
else he might know.

“After I spoke with him your mom asked if I could tell
you about your sister, she said she didn’t think she had the strength to do it,
especially since she knew you would take it hard.

“I came to your house that same day, and when I told
you . . . well, suffice it to say, you didn’t take it well. You stormed out of
the house. Rogan texted your mom that you were with him, so we waited for you
to return, hoping you would feel like talking, but when you came home, you went
to your room and stayed there until Cass’s funeral.

“Your mom tried to get you out of bed, I tried, Rogan
tried, your friends came over, and they tried, but you wouldn’t listen. You
were inconsolable. The day of the funeral was the day everything happened. I
picked you up outside the church after you . . . well, after . . . after . . .”

“After I ruined my sister’s funeral, and broke down
like the nut job that I am?” I finish for him.

“You were going through a lot, and your mind just
wasn’t capable of handling it all.” He tries to comfort me.

“I appreciate you trying to make me feel less crazy
than I really am, but let’s face it, I’m as fruity as a fruitcake and hated
just as much.”

“Hey! No! I will not let you do that! No one hates
you, no one blames you, and no one thinks you’re crazy. We all cope in our own
ways, yours is just a bit more eccentric,” he says with a smile.

“Thanks a lot, jerk.” I scold, but feel slightly
better after hearing his words.   

“I brought you here that day.” His tone is serious
once more as he continues with the sad story that is my life. “When we got here
I thought we’d talk, that maybe I could calm you down, but you stripped out of
your clothes and dove into the water. I followed you, and waited. That’s when
it happened.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life. When I realized
you weren’t breathing, I kept thinking about how it was my fault, and how I was
going to have to tell your mom that both of her girls were dead.

“I’d called 911, and when they came they did all they
could do, but it wasn’t good enough, you still weren’t breathing. I performed
CPR long after everyone told me to stop, long after I could barely breathe
myself from exhaustion, but I couldn’t stop, and I’m thankful I didn’t because
you came back. I got you back.

“When the EMTs took you to the hospital I called your
mom and she met me there. We waited for the doctor to tell us what was going
on, why it was taking so long for us to see you. I was afraid maybe you’d been
gone too long and there was brain damage, but when the doctor finally came to
see us and told us what had happened, that you weren’t responsive, that you had
slipped into a coma, we were both shocked. The doctor said that with everything
you had been through it wasn’t too shocking that your body might do this as a
way of healing, a way to escape the trauma and find rest.

“Your mom and I stayed with you that night, then Rogan
came the next night. Your friends would stop by almost every day, and sometimes
when we were all in the room with you, your heartrate would increase, and your
eyelids would flutter, as if you recognized our voices, as if you wanted to be
a part of the conversation, but you still didn’t wake.

“For six months we waited with no idea when you might
come back to us, for six months we prayed that you would, and for six months I
prayed I hadn’t ruined you by bringing you back. I knew that it was no accident
that you had drowned, you were too good a swimmer for that to happen, which
made me question if I’d done the right thing, but I couldn’t let you kill
yourself. I couldn’t let you give up like that. I had no choice but to save
you.