Yes, this is the sequel I swore blind that I'd never write. Blame the BR mafia - Wendy, Elena and Lynn. I wrote a nice little short story, a throw-away piece to wrap up loose ends and paste a happy ending onto everything, and then they got their hands on it and told me point blank that it didn't work and that I had to fix it by making it into a longer story. Believe me, when you've got those three on your back, you don't want to argue! So, obedient writer that I am, I did as I was told. Reluctantly <g>. Now and then they nag me to write some more, and as I'm now up to 100 pages, I thought I may as well show what I've got and see what sort of reception it gets. Hey, if you don't like it, I can stop writing! Yay! <bg>PS: Pam has quite a lot to answer for, too. She's so darned encouraging that you can't refuse her when she asks for more.Damaged
(Lois’s Story – A Sequel to Addicted)
She sat, knees neatly together, back straight, hands clasped tidily in her lap. Her hair was brushed, her make-up done, and she was wearing her nicest jeans and favourite sweater.
He was late. He was never late.
Her gaze darted to the clinic’s swivel doors as they began to turn and another figure, darkened against the sunlight streaming in from outside, came through.
Not him.
She looked away quickly so as not to be caught staring, snatched a glance up at the clock behind the reception desk. Nine minutes. He was nine minutes late.
The woman receptionist smiled across at her. “Not like Clark to be late,” she remarked.
She shook her head in agreement.
“I expect he’s stuck in traffic,” the woman suggested pleasantly. Doris, wasn’t it? Doris worked the early morning shift until eleven, then Anne did the afternoons. Steve took over in the evening and worked the late shift.
After two months of living in the clinic, she knew all the staff. Even the cleaners.
But Doris was wrong. Clark didn’t drive; he flew. Or walked. Doris knew that, really - she was just trying to reassure. Even the ancillary staff played their part in caring for the clinic’s patients.
“Nice sweater,” said Doris. “Is it new?”
She nodded. Clark had bought it for her. She’d mentioned in passing that she didn’t have any warm clothes, and the very next day, he’d brought her the sweater. She’d felt guilty, hadn’t meant to hint that she wanted anything from him, but he’d brushed her worries aside with a smile and told her to try it on. It had fit beautifully, and instantly, it had become a firm favourite.
He was so very kind to her. She knew that now, although she hadn’t really noticed in the beginning. Back at the start, she’d been completely immersed in a terrifying world of violent memories and waking nightmares, and nothing else had mattered to her except finding a way out of the terror.
Clark had been her guide. The doctors and nurses at the clinic had helped, but Clark had been the one who had held her when the pain and fear overwhelmed her, who had picked her up time and time again when she’d faltered. Set her back on the path away from the terror.
She’d liked him from the start. He was different to the others – he smiled and made jokes. He didn’t treat her like a freak. Didn’t talk to her like she was five years old. He understood exactly what she needed, which wasn’t always compassion and sympathy – sometimes she needed a little friction, a little gentle banter from time to time. A woman could only cope with so much sweetness and kid glove handling before she felt an overwhelming urge to scream.
Of course, he’d been in her dreams from even before she’d met him, which had helped. She’d felt like she knew him already. But, even if he hadn’t been in her dreams, there was just something about him which made her trust him.
She’d needed that trust, of course. Once the clinic knew that he could interpret for her, be her speaking voice while her own remained silent and unused, they’d begun including him in her therapy sessions. He became her buffer, the person through whom all her communication with the rest of the world was filtered.
She’d been embarrassed at first. Ashamed. Deeply, deeply ashamed. He got to know everything that was in her head, all the vile, unspeakable things she’d seen and suffered. All her fears, both irrational and real.
She’d watched his face intently, seeking out the slightest hint that he found her repulsive. She’d seen revulsion. She’d seen appalled disgust. She’d seen shock.
But she’d also sensed compassion. Pain that was almost as deep as her own. Tears, even.
So gradually, she’d relaxed. Allowed him to speak for her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They became two halves of a team, working so well together that sometimes she didn’t even finish her thoughts to him before he was relating them to her therapists.
Of course, they didn’t just attend therapy sessions together. He ate dinner with her, or watched TV and played board games. She liked that about him – that he wanted to spend time with her. He told her things about himself, too – that had started when she’d seen him on TV in a funny ski-suit outfit. He’d had to explain that one pretty thoroughly. It wasn’t every day, after all, that you saw a man flying.
So she knew about his two jobs – the rescue work and the journalism. She’d been a journalist once, so that work had interested her quite a lot. She’d made him tell her about his stories and had decided he was probably a half-decent writer, although not as good as she’d once been.
Clark had very quickly become a big part of her life at the clinic.
Lately, though, they’d had been trying to wean her off him. She was relying on him too heavily, they said. Clark couldn’t speak for her indefinitely.
She knew they were right, but her silence had become so profound that it was almost inconceivable to her that she might break it one day. It was her protection, the silence - so long as she remained behind it, she was safe. No-one could get too close, and she didn’t need to get too close to them.
In fact, the prospect of breaking the silence terrified her.
Clark understood that. And while he was around, she was safe. He was her voice.
But he was late. Anxiety was rising in her chest like a fluttering moth, nervous and unpredictable. Her eyes darted to the doors again, willing him to stride through them, solid and reliable and wearing one of his bright, beaming smiles.
“Do you want me to call upstairs, see if he’s left a message with the nurses?” volunteered Doris.
She shook her head jerkily. He’d be here any second, she was sure. Any second.
“You sure?”
Yes, she was sure. Any second. Any second now.
Or maybe she’d got the time wrong. Maybe he’d said quarter past, not quarter to the hour. She should have checked her diary before coming downstairs. Maybe he wasn’t even coming today. He visited her most days, but maybe not today. She twisted her fingers together in her lap. That was it. She’d got the day wrong. Her memory wasn’t as reliable as it used to be. Maybe-
A figure appeared behind the doors. Her heart stopped. Right height, right build. Raincoat – yes, he had one just like that. The doors turned, glinting in the sunlight. The figure emerged.
Her heart started again, hammering furiously in her chest. It was him. Everything was okay. She stood, forcing herself to move slowly and not rush like a startled rabbit into his arms. Pasted a bright, relaxed smile onto her face.
“Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
She shook her head, ignoring her racing heart beat. <<No, just a few minutes.>>
“I woke up late...I...well, it doesn’t matter what happened.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek briefly. “So, you still want to go out? It’s a beautiful day.”
They’d been taking walks together lately. The clinic was encouraging her to go out more and more these days, wanted her to exercise a little control over her life.
<<Okay. The park?>>
He nodded. “Good choice.”
****************
She walked beside him in the sunlight, wandering down the narrow paths of the rhododendron grove. The bushes were heavy with blooms, bright vibrant colours surrounding them on both sides of the path. She enjoyed the natural beauty, the simple, uncomplicated pleasure they gave. They were such a contrast to her previous existence in that hovel of a room in Brazzaville.
She glanced up at Clark, needing the quick fix of his beaming face to blot out the ugly memory. He caught her gaze, rewarded her with a brief, taut, smile.
She looked away again, vaguely troubled by his reaction. He’d been subdued since he’d picked her up at the clinic, hadn’t spoken much. His smiles hadn’t quite reached his eyes, had seemed a bit forced.
Had she done something to upset him? Or perhaps he’d grown tired of her. That was more likely. Finally, he’d had enough of her weird behaviour, her tears and her tantrums. Why, after all, should he spend all his free time with a crazy woman in a mental health clinic? He surely had normal friends he’d prefer to socialise with. Perhaps even a girlfriend – a man as attractive as Clark must have women chasing after him all the time.
She didn’t want to lose him, though. She needed him.
<<These are gorgeous, aren’t they?>>
She pointed at some red flowers, trying to draw him into conversation.
He nodded, glancing briefly where she was pointing. “Yeah.”
He was even walking a little apart from her, holding himself stiffly upright as he moved along the path.
<<Which is your favourite colour?>>
“Yellow, I guess. Not red.” Another brittle smile.
She didn’t understand. If he didn’t want to see her any more, why had he come today? He could have left a message. She understood that sometimes he had other commitments – now and then, he’d rush off on a rescue, for example. So he hadn’t needed to come if he hadn’t wanted to.
Maybe he was just bored. His two jobs must be a whole lot more exciting than just walking in a park with her. He’d come today out of a sense of duty, but now he was regretting it. That was it.
Except he seemed more than bored. He was terse. Irritated, even.
Oh, God, she didn’t want to lose him.
<<Have I done something wrong?>> she blurted out clumsily, unable to keep her insecurity to herself any longer.
His head swung around and her heart sank at the frown creasing his face. “No. Why...” He paused, wrapping his arms around himself like a protective layer before continuing. “Why would you think that?”
<<You...you’re a bit quiet>>
He shrugged. “Sorry.” They emerged from the rhododendrons out onto grassy parkland again. “Where to now?”
His voice was taut and clipped, as if the words were being squeezed out of him with difficulty. She began to wonder whether maybe he wanted to be anywhere in the world except next to her in this park.
<<The rose garden?>>
“Okay.”
He wasn’t going to come back again, she supposed. After today, she’d be on her own again. Back to her world of silence and misunderstandings. She could start writing things down, she supposed. That might be okay.
No, it would be terrible. Writing was so slow, and she’d have to translate her thoughts into words, whereas Clark did all that for her. Often, he said things better than she ever could.
And they had secret conversations, just the two of them, he helping her decide what the doctors needed to know and what could remain hidden. He knew more about her, now, than any other person in the world. That might have frightened and embarrassed her, except that he was so easy to trust - he just didn’t seem to have any kind of hidden agenda. The clinic staff obviously trusted him, too, and seeing his work as Superman on TV convinced her that he really was one of the few really good guys in this world.
Of course, she still wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to spend so much time with her. Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with anything, sinister or otherwise, that he could possibly gain from seeing her. He’d never made a move on her, so he clearly wasn’t attracted to her.
Could he be gay? Some of the nicest men she’d know had been gay.
She hoped not.
She’d walked a few paces towards the roses before she realised he wasn’t beside her. She stopped and looked back. He was still at the edge of the grass, holding himself tightly around his middle. The pose looked wrong – almost as if he were in some kind of difficulty.
Trotting back to him, she asked, <<Are you okay?>>
He glanced mutely at her, then closed his eyes and hugged himself even tighter, sagging forward a little as he did so.
<<Clark?>> Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and touched his arm.
He didn’t respond. Something was definitely wrong with him. Suddenly, his terse conversation and jerky smiles made sense. He probably hadn’t been feeling well all morning.
Fighting down panic, she grasped his arm more firmly. <<Clark?>>
He still didn’t seem to hear her, but he straightened up a bit. “Sorry,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Thought I’d be okay...” His head dropped forward again.
Frightened now, she glanced around for someone who might be able to help. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t equipped to cope with an emergency. Clark did emergencies. Doctors and nurses did them, too, but not crazy people like her. There must be someone nearby who could take over.
But they were in a quiet section of the park, chosen deliberately for its peacefulness, in fact. She appeared to be totally and utterly alone with a sick man.
Oh, God. Clark was supposed to look after her, not the other way around.
She spotted a park bench. Okay, sitting him down was probably a good idea. She needed to sit down herself.
With a guiding arm around his back, she steered him to the bench. She was forced to indicate her intentions with gesture and movement, because none of her thoughts seemed to be reaching him any more. That made her even more frightened. How could she cope if she couldn’t even talk to him any more?
Once they were both sat down, she turned to him again. <<Tell me what to do>> she implored.
His eyes were closed, though, and he didn’t respond. She placed her hand over his to gain his attention and was shocked to find it icy cold.
<<Please, Clark. What do I do? Should I call an ambulance?>>
Although how she was going to do that without him to help her, she had no idea. She glanced around the park again. Still no-one.
And now he was shivering and his face was grey. His eyes opened sluggishly and he glanced at her, giving her a quick shot of hope. “S...sorry,” he muttered, his eyelids drooping again. Her hope faded.
<<Clark, please talk to me>>
Frantic, she shook his icy hand, but whatever had prompted him to open his eyes didn’t seem to work a second time.
Maybe she could run back to the clinic and fetch help. They’d understand her – they were used to dealing with her mute gestures. She’d persuade one of the doctors to come back here with her and everything would be all right again.
Going to the clinic would mean leaving him alone, though, and he didn’t look like he ought to be on his own. She looked into his taut, pale face. He really seemed to be suffering.
If only she could make him hear her. Then he’d know that she needed help deciding what to do. But she couldn’t hear or feel his thoughts at all. It was as if he’d shut down that part of himself altogether. Or maybe he couldn’t communicate with her because of whatever was wrong with him.
She swallowed and ran her tongue around her lips. There was one option still open to her, but it meant taking a huge step, one she hadn’t planned on taking for a very long time indeed. Panic seized her and send her pulse racing so fast she thought her heart might jump into her throat. She couldn’t do it. There had to be another way.
Maybe he’d be okay in a few minutes. That was it – they’d just sit quietly for a little while until he was feeling better again. Clark never got sick, so this must be just a passing thing. He’d be okay soon.
She sat nervously for a few seconds – or it might have been minutes. She couldn’t tell.
Unable to wait any longer, she touched his hand again. Still icy, still trembling. Okay, plan B. What was plan B?
Walk him back to the clinic. He’d been on his feet not so long ago, so he should be okay doing it again, shouldn’t he? And it wasn’t that far – only a short block away. But what if she was wrong and he collapsed on the way? She’d be in a worse situation than she was now.
Deal with that if and when it happens, she told herself. He’d probably be okay.
She got to her feet and tugged at his hand to make him rise. His eyes opened, flicked dully up at her, and closed again. She tried again, with the same result.
It was no use. He’d turned completely inward and wasn’t going to respond to her.
She licked her lips again. She’d have to do it. If nothing else, it might surprise him into responding positively to her.
She swallowed again. Opened her mouth. Took a slow, shaky breath.
“Cl...ark?”
The word sounded incredibly loud and her throat felt horribly husky and dry.
“Clark?” She found it a little easier the second time, but the word still seemed too big and angular in her mouth. Her tongue felt sluggish and clumsy, too. “L...let’s go back.”
A whole sentence! And the earth hadn’t opened up and swallowed her down into hell.
His eyes flickered open. “You...your voice...”
Thank God - he’d heard her and she’d gained his attention. She nodded. “You’re sick,” she said, opting for the shortest explanation she could think of. “Can you walk?”
He closed his eyes and hugged himself even tighter.
Her heart sank. If he didn’t want to move, she didn’t know what she was going to do next. Find help, she supposed, and hope he’d be okay on his own while she did so.
One more try. “Clark?”
Anxiously, she waited for his answer. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and nodded. “Yeah.”
Relieved, she held out her hand to help him stand.
**************
