The Survivors Club

Chapter 18

JILLIAN GOT HOME LATE. NEARLY 9:00 P.M., A LATE END TO a too-long day that had left her jumpy and anxious. She'd checked the backseat of her car four times for interlopers since leaving Meg's house. She'd walked everywhere with her car key sticking out like a weapon from her fisted hand. Once, she had even popped open her trunk, just to be sure. She was protecting herself from overly aggressive reporters, she told herself, but knew that she was lying.

Arriving home, she was grateful to see lights blazing. Since the first phone call from Eddie Como nearly a year before, she had installed motion-sensitive floodlights in the front of her residence, as well as strategically placed spotlights that illuminated each bush and shrub. There would be no skulking around her East Greenwich home. The house also featured a new state-of-the-art home security system with a panic button in every room, and a remote her wheelchair-bound mother kept in her pocket. Jillian hadn't quite convinced herself to buy a handgun yet, but had perhaps gone a little nuts procuring pepper spray. She slept with a canister beneath her pillow at night. Her mom had hers tucked in her bedside drawer. As Toppi had dryly observed, the Hayes women were ready for war.

Jillian pulled into her garage with her car lights on, closed the garage door first, then scrutinized the interior for trespassers before finally unlocking and opening her car door. She once more had her car key protruding like a blade from her fist. She would keep it that way until she entered her home and conducted a brief inspection of the kitchen.

Did you know that approximately one woman is raped every minute in the United States? Did you know that women are more likely to be raped in their own homes than anywhere else? Did you know that many intruders bypassed home security systems by simply ducking into the garage behind the woman's car? Did you know that fewer than ten percent of reported rapists go to jail, meaning that an overwhelming number of rapists are still walking the streets, ready, willing and able to strike again?

Jillian knew these things. She read the books. She scrutinized the statistics. Knowledge was power. Know thy enemy. And don't believe for a minute that for some special reason you are entitled to be safe.

Most nights, Jillian went to sleep with a giant knot in her chest. Most nights, around two A.M., she jerked awake with sweat pouring down her face and a scream ripe on her lips. It took some time to recover from these things. She had read that, too. In the meantime-and this was her own philosophy-that's why they invented good makeup.

In the garage, Jillian drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then raised her chin. Show time, she told herself, and carefully blanked her face as she walked through the door.

In the kitchen, she immediately encountered her mother's live-in assistant, Toppi, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed disapprovingly over her chest.

“Sorry I'm late,” Jillian said. She dropped her purse on the desk in the kitchen, took off her jacket, fiddled with her keys.

“Uh huh.”

“How is she doing?”

“She lost her voice, not her mind,” Toppi said testily. “How do you think?”

“She saw the news?”

“Of course.”

“And the press?”

“Phone's been ringing off the hook. At least until I disconnected it. Not like I was worried about your call getting through.” The edge returned to Toppi's voice. She gave Jillian another stern look, and Jillian obediently hung her head.

At twenty-six, in a wildly colored skirt and with a mass of kinky brown hair, Toppi looked more like a traveling gypsy than a health-care professional. She was cheerful, energetic and, in theory, Jillian's employee. Toppi, however, didn't answer to anyone. Since she had started three years ago, she had turned their stale little household upside down and inside out. She knew not only what was best for Libby, but what was best for Jillian, Trish and the paperboy down the street. She always gave her opinion freely and with great enthusiasm. Jillian's mother adored her. So had Trish.

“You hurt her,” Toppi said now. “I know you don't mean to. I know you have other things on your mind. But you hurt her, Jillian. She's already lost one daughter and when you disappear like this, she worries about you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not me who deserves the apology.”

“I'll tell her, too.”

Toppi snorted. “Like she hasn't already heard enough sorries from you. Come on, Jillian, she's your mother. She doesn't want your apology, she wants your presence. Come home for dinner. Read her a story. Or better yet, take her to see Trish.”

Jillian hung her car keys on the little hook. Then she picked up the mail and started sorting through. Bills, bills, bills. Junk mail. At least there was nothing from him. She didn't even realize that was what had her so worried, until she came up empty. She set down the stack of mail, and Toppi took that as an opportunity to continue her attack.

“That's where you've been, haven't you? You've been visiting Trish.”

“I went there.”

“Your mom misses her, too.”

Jillian didn't say anything.

“She can't tell stories, Jillian. Surely you understand that. When someone dies, you want to relive their life, and what they meant to you. Share the moments, the laughter, keep them alive a little bit longer by talking about them. Your mom can't do that out loud, but that doesn't mean she isn't doing it in her head.”

“I know.”

“If you would just sit with her, hold her hand. Let her look at you and tell you everything with her eyes. She does that, you know. In her mind, she is fluent, she does have a voice. If you would just be with her, it would allow her to pretend. She could tell you everything without saying a word. And I think it would mean the world to her.”

“I know, Toppi. I know.” Old ground. They had been covering it for twelve months now. And Toppi was right and Jillian was wrong, and she wanted to be a better person, but right now, she simply wasn't. At work she had to function, meeting every client's demand or she would lose her business. With Carol, Meg, the press, the police, she had to be capable, always saying and doing the right thing, because she was the leader and she couldn't let anyone down. And then, when she got home…

When she got home, she had nothing left. She simply saw her mother, so small and frail and easy to damage. She saw Toppi, hired by Jillian so Trish wouldn't feel guilty about going off to college. And the walls came tumbling down, the barriers eroded and Jillian wasn't ready yet for the woman underneath. Eddie Como had changed her. He'd brought fear into her life, and she would've hated him for that alone. Of course, he'd also done so much worse.

“You bitch… I'm gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I'm gonna get you, even if it's from beyond the grave.”

Jillian opened the fridge. In spite of spending most of her day in a restaurant, she'd hardly eaten a thing. She eyed shelf after shelf crammed with food, but nothing sparked her appetite. Behind her, Toppi was frowning.

“Are you all right?” Toppi asked abruptly. “Lately… Jillian, are you all right?”

Jillian closed the door. She started to say, “Of course,” but then she saw the look in Toppi's face and the blatant lie died on her lips. She felt her insides go hollow again. The ache, so close to the surface since her discussion with Sergeant Griffin, rose up and pressed back down on her with a heavy, heavy weight. She had lied to the sergeant this afternoon. She had told him she was certain, when in fact she hadn't been certain of anything for a whole year.

“It's been a big day,” she said tersely. “I just needed some time to absorb everything. Some time to just be… alone.”

“With Trish?”

“Something like that.”

“Your mom wanted to go there today. I was worried, though, about the press.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“It's okay, Jillian,” Toppi said gently. “She doesn't blame you. I don't blame you. You reserve that right for yourself.”

Jillian smiled. She'd heard this lecture before, too. Many times, really. Where was Trish? She leaned against the refrigerator, took a deep breath. “Does it feel different to you, Toppi? Him being dead. Does it feel different?”

Toppi shrugged. “I'm not losing any sleep over it, if that's what you mean. You lead a violent life, you'll come to a violent end.”

“What goes around, comes around.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I thought it would feel different,” Jillian said quietly. “I thought I'd be… relieved. Vindicated maybe. Triumphant. But I just feel… empty. And I… I didn't know how to come home tonight. How to face Libby. I feel… I feel like I failed her.”

“You failed her?”

“Yes.” Jillian smiled again. “I'm in a weird mood. I've been in it all day. Not myself at all. I should go to bed.”

“Jillian… the police were here. Two plainclothes officers. They wanted to interview Libby until I explained to them that wouldn't be happening. Is there something I should know?”

“No,” Jillian said honestly, then shook her head. “Maybe that's the problem. I didn't kill Eddie. I don't know who killed Eddie. And frankly, that pisses me off. Someone else got to him before I had the chance. Someone else killed him, and in my fantasies I had reserved that honor for myself. Apparently, I'm even more bloodthirsty than I thought.”

“I've dreamed of killing him, too,” Toppi said.

Jillian looked up in surprise.

“Sure,” Toppi said. “Guy like that. After what he did to you, to your mom, to Trish. Death isn't good enough for him. They should've hacked off his penis, then left him to live.”

“Castration doesn't work with sex offenders,” Jillian said immediately. “In fact, studies suggest that surgical or chemical castration leads them to commit even more violent acts, such as homicide. Because it's not about sex, it's about power. Take away a sex offender's penis, and he'll simply substitute a knife.”

Toppi was looking at her strangely. “Jillian, you read too much.”

“I know. I can't seem to stop.”

Toppi was quiet for a moment. “I don't suppose that reading has included information on post-traumatic stress syndrome?”

“It has.”

“Because… because that kind of thing would be expected, you know. After what you've been through.”

Jillian smiled. “I've earned the right to be a little nuts?”

“Jillian, that's not what I meant-”

“I know I'm struggling, Toppi. I know I'm not quite myself. Maybe I didn't forget everything like Meg and maybe I'm not as aggressively hostile as Carol, but I am… wounded. There, that's an accomplishment for me right there. I hate saying that out loud. It sounds so weak. Birds get wounded. Children get wounded. I'm supposed to be above all that. Frankly, I wasn't even raped. What do I have to cry about?”

“Oh, Jillian…”

“I know I'm being unfair to Libby,” Jillian said quietly. “I'd like to tell you I have a good reason, but I don't know what it is. Right now… I just don't feel like coming home these days. Some nights I wish I could go anyplace but here. I'd like to get in my car and just drive. Drive, drive, drive.” She smiled again, but it was sad. “Maybe I can work my way to Mexico.”

“You're running away from us.”

“No. I'm just running. It's the only time I feel safe.”

“He's dead now, Jillian. You are safe.”

Jillian's shoulders came down. She shook her head and said hoarsely, “But there are so many more just like him, Toppi. I've been reading the books. And you have no idea… The world, it is such a bad place.” Her shoulders started to shake. God, she was not herself today. And then she was back in that room, that horribly dark room, with Trish needing her, Trish depending on her, and she had not got it done. Far from saving the day, she had nearly gotten raped herself. And now he was gone, and what would give her life meaning without Trisha to take care of or Eddie Como to hate?

And then she was thinking of Meg, I don't think I was happy, and she was thinking of Carol, Let's have some chocolate cake, and suddenly she knew she had failed both of them. She had turned them into warriors, but long after defeating their enemy, were they really better off? They had nailed Eddie Como, but none of them had managed to heal.

And now Eddie Como was dead and they were unraveling at the seams.

Jillian squeezed her eyes shut, covered her mouth with her hand. Pull it together, pull it together. Her mother was in the next room. And then she was thinking of Sergeant Griffin again, and that confused her even more. Men did not make things better. Just look at Eddie…

Toppi had crossed the kitchen. She touched Jillian's shoulder gently as Jillian drew in a ragged breath.

“I'm not an expert,” Toppi said quietly. “Lord knows I couldn't have gone through everything you've been through. But I do know this. When you're really hurting, when you're really feeling low, nothing is as good as crying on your mother's shoulder. You can do that, Jillian. She would like that. And it would do you both a world of good.”

Jillian drew in another deep breath. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

Toppi's gaze was too penetrating. Jillian looked away. She focused on her breathing, getting to slow, steady breaths. Then she wiped her cheeks with her hands, blinked her eyes clear. She should go to bed soon. Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. She would feel better then. Stronger, in control, ready to take on the press, ready to take on the police because it was only a matter of time…

“Well, let me go see her,” Jillian said briskly.

“All right,” Toppi said. “All right.” But it was obvious from her voice that she wasn't fooled.

Jillian went into the living room, where her mother sat in her favorite chair watching TV. At sixty-five, Olivia Hayes was still a beautiful woman. Tiny as a bird, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Her hair was dyed, of course, every eight weeks at her favorite salon, with six shades of brown to match her original color as closely as possible. Libby had always been vain about her hair. When Jillian was a little girl, she used to watch her mother brush out the long, thick locks when she came home at night. One hundred strokes. Then would come the saltwater gargle to preserve her vocal cords, followed by a heavy cream to protect her face.

“If you take good care of your body,” Libby always said with a wink, “your body will take good care of you.”

Jillian leaned over. “Hello, Mom,” she murmured. “Sorry I'm late.” She hugged her mother gently, careful not to squeeze too hard.

When she straightened, she saw something flash in her mother's gaze. Frustration, anger, it was hard to tell, and Libby would never say. Since her stroke ten years ago, she had limited movement in the right side of her body, as well as expressive aphasia-while she could understand communication perfectly, she could no longer speak or write back. As one of the doctors tried explaining to Jillian, in her mother's mind she could think fluently, but when she tried to get the words past her lips, her brain ran into a wall, blocking the flow.

Now Libby communicated via a “picture book,” filled with images of everything from a toilet to an apple to pictures of Jillian, Toppi, Trish. When she wanted something, she would tap on the picture. Right after Trisha's funeral, Libby had stroked her daughter's photo so often, she had literally worn it out.

“You saw the news?” Jillian asked, taking a seat on the couch.

Her mother tapped her left index finger once, meaning yes.

“He's dead now, Mom,” Jillian said quietly. “He can't hurt anyone ever again.”

Her mother's chin came up. She had a fierce look on her face, but her fingers remained quiet.

“Are you happy?”

No movement.

“Sad?”

No movement.

“Frightened?”

Her mother made an impatient sound deep in her throat. Jillian paused, then she got it. “You're mad?”

One tap.

Jillian hesitated. “You wanted the trial?”

Hard tap!

“But why, Mom? This way you know he's punished. He can't get off because someone in the jury box has a guilty conscience. We'll never have to worry about parole or some kind of prison break. It's over. We won.”

Her mother made another impatient sound in the back of her throat. Jillian understood. Why questions didn't work well with this system. To get the right answer, you had to ask the right question. It was Jillian's job, as the person still capable of speech, to come up with the right question.

Toppi had materialized in the doorway. “You didn't see the news conference at six-thirty, did you?”

“No.”

“Eddie's lawyer says he has a witness who proves Eddie couldn't have attacked Carol. Instead, he was across town returning a movie at the time.”

“You're kidding!” Jillian sat up straight. Beside her, her mother had flipped open the picture book. Her left fingers frantically skimmed away.

“That's ridiculous,” Jillian announced. “Carol's not even sure what time he broke into her house. You can't have a definite alibi without a definite time.”

“Some of the press is starting to talk of a miscarriage of justice. Maybe Eddie was railroaded. Maybe the police were a little too eager to have a suspect. Maybe…” Toppi hesitated. “Maybe you, Carol and Meg applied a little too much pressure.”

“That is absurd!” Jillian was on her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. When backed into a corner, her first reaction was always anger, and now she was in a rage. Quick, someone get her a reporter. Any reporter. She wanted to slug one good. “All we did was put together the blood-donor connection between Trisha and Meg. That's it! Eddie's the one who just happened to have access to their home addresses. Eddie's the one who just happened to see two out of three rape victims within weeks of their attacks. Eddie's the one who just happened to have his semen present in their houses. How the hell does the press explain that?”

“They don't. They just flash clean-cut photos from his high school yearbook and use words like minority, suspected of rape, tragically shot down.”

“Oh for the love of God!” Jillian had to sit down again. Her head was suddenly pounding. She thought she might be ill. “They're turning him into a martyr,” she murmured. “Whoever shot him… He's making him seem innocent.”

Libby thumped Jillian's arm. She had found the picture she wanted. A new one, added by Toppi just one year ago to help Libby communicate about the trial. It featured a blindfolded woman holding the scales of justice.

“I know you wanted the trial,” Jillian said impatiently. “I understood that.”

Her mother thinned her lips. She tapped the photo more emphatically, this time the scales.

“Justice? Not just a trial, you want justice?”

Hard tap!

“Because we don't have it yet,” Jillian filled in slowly. “The press is now trying the case in absentia, and they're using Eddie's looks and ethnicity as evidence. And the only way we could counter is with Eddie himself. By actually having the trial and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie Como is the College Hill Rapist.”

Her mother tapped, tapped, tapped.

“You're right, Mom. I'm angry now, too. We were robbed this morning.” Jillian's voice grew bitter. “As if we hadn't already lost too much.”

Her mother flipped through the pages again. She came to another picture, this one also new. It looked like a child's drawing, a caricature of a monster with big yellow fangs and red bugged-out eyes. Toppi had done the honors, her rendition of Eddie, because there was no way they would permit his real photo in the picture book. They refused to give him that much presence in their lives.

Now Libby's left hand scrabbled with the page of the photo album. She got the plastic cover back. She yanked Eddie's picture from the sticky back. Then she looked at Toppi and Jillian with her chin up, her brown eyes ablaze, and her lower lip trembling with unshed tears. She crumpled up Eddie Como in her feeble left hand. Then she flung the monster across the room.

Toppi and Jillian watched the paper hit the floor. The wad rolled to a stop five feet away. Then it was still.

“You're right,” Jillian said softly. “Eddie Como is gone, so once and for all let's get him out of our lives. Frankly, I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of wondering over and over again what I could've done differently.” Her voice rose, gained strength. “Fuck the press, Mom. Fuck the public defender. And fuck some voyeuristic public that has nothing better to do than watch our pain get played out on the nightly news. Eddie Como has taken too much from us, and I'm not giving him anything more. It's over. That's that. We're not talking about him anymore. We're not worrying about him anymore. We're not afraid of him anymore. From here on out, Eddie Como is gone, and we are done!”