The Frenchman's Slow Seduction (9 page)

“All cadets stand up on
your mats. Cadet Paul, up front please. I would like you to help me
with the first demonstration.”

For the rest of the
night, we get hands-on experience.

When I get home shortly
after nine o’clock, deflated and exhausted, Bryan is waiting for
me. I lead him into the kitchen. After getting us each a glass of
water, I join him at the table.

“I’ve got night shift
for the next three nights, Rach. If you need to get hold of me
between six in the evening and six in the morning, you can use my
mobile number. You can call me at my place anytime.”

“Thanks, Bryan. I
appreciate it, but I don’t think there’ll be any more dramas.”

“A bunch of us from
work are going to a pub called The Lookout on Saturday. Do you know
it?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’ve been
there.”

“We’re all bringing
friends. Would you like to come?”

“Sure. Sounds like
fun.”

He gives me a brilliant
smile. “I’ll pick you up around eight.”

“I’ll be here.”

At the door, he hugs
me. “Congratulations on getting through the first night,
Rachel.”

Chapter 11

It’s a struggle to get
up in the morning. I’m sorer than hell, and no matter how long I
stay in the shower I do not feel better. I start to wonder if the
class is worth it or if I’m up to it. Feeling as miserable as a
toothache, I take a couple of pain relievers. Looking at the
bruises on my arms and legs, I’m reminded of something my
grandmother once told me: “Nothing in life that’s worth doing is
easy, Rachel. Remember that.” Frowning and a bit hunched over, I
leave for work.

It’s my turn for
morning surgery. Gigi, a terrier-shepherd cross, has swallowed
something that has wedged in her small intestine. Tim assists with
the surgery. The mysterious lump is easily found, and a cut to the
intestine reveals a small red ball, a tiny green soldier, and a toy
jack.

“Is this a dog or a toy
chest?” Tim says, cracking his first joke since the KoKo
incident.

The next operation is a
sex change operation for Arthur, a tom, who has had one too many
urinary tract infections. The scarring on his urethra has left us
no choice but to amputate his penis, leaving a female-like opening.
It’s not an uncommon procedure. Tim is fascinated.

“There goes his love
life,” he says as I take a snip, which starts me laughing. “Don’t
laugh too hard,” Tim says. “He needs something left behind.” We
finish off the morning with a couple of neuters, to which Tim adds
comments like “Another one bites the dust,” and “There’s no getting
one past the goalie now, mate.” As we’re putting the last patient
in his cage, Tim becomes more serious.

“Hey, Rach,” he says,
“got any ideas about who could be breaking into this joint?”

“Not really,” I tell
him. “Sometimes I feel like I almost know but I’m afraid to find
out. Does that sound stupid?”

“No, not stupid.
Something about it doesn’t sit right with me either.”

On my way home at the
end of the day, I drop by Michelle’s place. She suggests going to
the university pub, which sounds perfect. Getting into her Peugeot,
I smile when I think of the day she chose the color. While we were
at the car dealership looking at color strips of paint, she pointed
to a brilliant red color and said, “That’s it. Bust my cherry
red.”

At the pub, I fill her
in on what’s been happening at work, especially the break-in
part.

“Shit, Rachel. What the
hell’s going on over there? You know, a lot of your problems
started when you began working at that clinic. I wish you were
working someplace else.”

“I’m beginning to feel
the same way,” I tell her.

Sitting back, she takes
a drink of wine. “So, Bryan’s helping you out. He’s such a sweetie.
You should have called me. You know I’d have come.”

“I know, but I didn’t
want to call anyone.”

“Rachel, you’ve got to
stop trying to do everything yourself. There’s no virtue in being
virtuous. People like to be needed, so let us in every once in a
while, okay?”

As Michelle and I
drink, munch, and idly chat, I find myself thinking about life.
Looking across the table, I say, “Michelle, do you ever have
doubt?”

“Of course. Is this
about Mike?”

“No. It’s about me.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not like other people, that I don’t love
like other people. You and Bryan, you’re so free with your
emotions.”

She puts down her
glass. “Want the trade secret? Don’t think, just feel. Trust the
little voice deep inside you. It’s all you’ve got.”

“That’s just it. I
can’t hear that little voice.”

“You will. And as far
as being able to love, you’re the most loving person I know.”

On Thursday morning,
I’m the first to arrive at the clinic and feel uncomfortable being
there alone.

When Mike gets in, he
finds me in the stockroom and puts his arms around me. If I could,
I would melt into the center of his being, become invisible,
disappear without a trace; if even for just a moment.

Holding me close, he
says, “Where are you, Rachel?”

“I’m not sure. I’m
trying to make sense of things, and I guess I need some time. I’m
sorry if that hurts you, Mike. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Take all the time you
need. I just feel like I’m losing touch with you. Fill me in every
once in a while, okay?”

With a sigh, he
releases me, and we get on with our day.

As I walk into one of
the back treatment rooms, Albert nudges his head against the cage
bars for his daily head rub. When I put a finger in his cage and
stroke him, he pushes against my finger, like he usually does.
Suddenly, he turns and takes a chunk out of my finger. Pain and
blood are all I register. Looking into the cage, I see him chewing
on something and realize that it’s a tiny piece of my flesh.
Feeling weak, I watch as he spits it out onto the cage floor.

Mike walks by. “Oh no,
Rachel! Just what you don’t need.” Using peroxide and a couple of
sticking plasters, he ministers to my finger. “I’ll take surgery,”
he says. “You take appointments.”

At the end of the day,
as I’m leaving for Northcliff, I run into Mike outside the X-ray
room, and he drops his armload of files. Both of us bend down to
pick up the mess of papers. As we get up, we look into one
another’s eyes, and I catch my breath.

“What’s the matter,
Rach?” Mike asks.

“Nothing,” I say. For a
moment, Mike felt like a complete stranger to me.

At Northcliff, Verna is
in her room, sitting on a chair, dressed in an elegant white lace
skirt and top combo.

“I have a suitor,” she
says. “What do you think about that, Rachel?”

Surprised, I say, “I
think it’s exciting.”

“I’m frightened. I
thought my days for suitors were over. His name is Syd, and he’s
very kind. I tested him you know, and he broke down and cried.”

I smile. “So he
passed.”

“Oh yes, he passed.
He’s got character, too. He’s not afraid to tell people off when
they do something inappropriate. I feel safe with him.”

“And?”

“And he wants to marry
me.”

Bowled over, I say,
“Wow, that’s great. Is that where you’re going now?”

“Gosh no. I haven’t
said yes yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because maybe one day
I’ll wake up and he won’t be kind anymore.”

I sit down on the chair
next to her. “Then you’ll pack your bags and leave. Don’t let your
ex-husband take anything else from you, Verna. He’s done enough
damage. Don’t let him take away your chance for happiness in love.
You deserve that much.”

She shakes her head.
“When I think of how I treated you the first day we met.”

“You were great.
Besides, you were right. I did need to be here.”

After our walk, I stay
with Verna and Liz for dinner. By the time I get to the gym
changing rooms, it’s a few minutes to seven.

“Better get the lead
out, Wiley,” Sondra says. “They don’t tolerate tardiness in the
force.” The cadets treat me like one of them.

As I walk into the gym,
Sergeant McMahon blows his whistle.

“Tonight will be your
toughest night, cadets. First, you will review falling,
destabilizing your opponent, kicking and punching. Then you will
have an exercise that determines if you can bust through the social
conventions thrust upon you. I will be wearing an inflated vest,
and you will hit me in the abdomen, hard enough to mean it. You
will first have a practice run on the punching bags. All cadets
need to pass this exercise to carry on with the rest of the course.
Is that understood?”

We all shout,
“Yes,
sir!”
which has now become second nature to me.

An hour into our
practice session, Sergeant McMahon calls us back to our mats. Using
a piece of chalk, he marks a line on the floor and then puts on his
inflated vest.

“Cadet Stewart, advance
to the line.” My stomach tenses up as Cadet Stewart does as she’s
told. “I want you to stand behind the line. On my cue, you will
step forward and punch me in this area of the abdomen.” He uses his
hands to show us where she is to hit him. “On the cue of
Go,
you will do as I’ve instructed. Is that understood Cadet
Stewart?”

“Yes, sir!” she
shouts.

“
Go.”

She advances and
thrusts her fist into the vest.

“Well done. You may
return to your mat.”

After Cadets Flemming
and El-Gabalawy successfully whack him, Sergeant McMahon shouts,
“Cadet Wiley, advance.”

I approach the
line.

“On the cue.
Go.”

I advance to hit him,
but stop short and feel sick. To hit Sergeant McMahon, I would have
to break a promise. At the age of fourteen, after a particularly
violent outburst from my father, I escaped to my bedroom. Filled
with rage at how powerless I felt, I did what I heard people do
when they’re mad; I punched a pillow. Not knowing the proper
technique, I hit it while it was on the bed instead of in the air
and ruptured a joint capsule in my wrist. The pain I felt was
searing. As my mother tended my wrist, she said, “If you let anger
get the better of you, Rachel, you’ll never be happy in this life.
Promise me you’ll never hit anyone or anything ever again.” And I
did.

“Cadet Wiley, are you
having a problem?”

“Yes, sir!” I
shout.

“I am an aggressor who
means to do you harm. Do you want to come out of this altercation
alive?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Return to the line. On
my cue.
Go.”

I advance to hit him,
but stop short again.

“Cadet Wiley, are you
taking this exercise seriously?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Are you married?”

“No, sir!”

“Do you want to get
married some day?”

“Maybe, sir!”

“Do you want your
husband to be a widower because you can’t bring yourself to hit an
aggressor?”

“No, sir!”

“Return to the line. If
you do not follow through this time, I will grab you and throw you
to the floor. Do you want to stop, Cadet Wiley?”

“No, sir!”

Suddenly, my childhood
mantra resurfaces: Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. As
a child, when I would see my father pull up in the driveway of our
home, that mantra would run through my brain. The same thing
happened at Mike’s house one day. Mike had gotten angry about
something that had nothing to do with me, and I went into a
separate room, leaned into a corner, and started crying, thinking
those same words.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?”
Mike asked when he found me.

“I don’t know. I feel
like you’re going to hit me.”

Truly horrified, he
said, “Hit you? Good God, why would you think that?”

“You’re so angry.”

Gently, he put his arms
around me and said, “I’m not really angry, Rach, and I’d rather die
than hurt you.” He never let me see him angry after that.

“On my cue,” Sergeant
McMahon shouts.

“Yes, sir!” Don’t hurt
me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.

“
Go.”

I advance, go to hit
him, but stop short. When he sees that I can’t do it, he grabs my
extended arm, uses his leg to destabilize me, and drops me to the
floor. Still holding my arm while I’m on the floor, he puts a foot
on my shoulder and pins me down. When the vibrations stop running
through my body, I resound with pain.

“Do you want to stop,
Cadet Wiley?” He is still pinning me to the floor.

“No, sir!”

“What’s going through
your mind?”

“I was thinking about
what a bastard you are.”

“Pardon?”

“I was thinking about
what a bastard you are, sir!”

“I can live with that.
There are a lot of bastards in this world. Do you have children,
Cadet Wiley?”

“No, sir!”

“Do you want
children?”

“Maybe, sir!”

“Do you want their
mother to be taken away in a body bag one day because you can’t
bring yourself to hit an aggressor?”

“No, sir!”

“If you fail again, I
will drop you again. Do you want to stop, Cadet Wiley?”

“No, sir!”

He releases me.

“Return to the line. On
my cue.
Go.”

Looking at him, I think
of the terror his daughter must have felt when she was attacked. I
advance. And this time I hit him in the abdomen much harder than
intended. My hand is killing me. The cadets all cheer.

“Congratulations, Cadet
Wiley,” Sergeant McMahon says. “You may return to your mat.”

Everyone else gets it
on the first try except Cadet Paul. She stops short on the first
attempt, hits too softly on the second, but nails Sergeant McMahon
the third time around.

In the changing room,
Sondra walks up to me. “You did great, Rachel. We’ve all had
training in this kind of stuff so it was easier for us. We’re all
going to The Lookout to chill out for a bit. Do you want to
come?”