7

Intentional End

Chapter 11

Tuesday Midmorning

October 9

Bobby's cell rang; he pulled it, checked the number, didn't recognize it and flipped it open, "Goren." Silence. "Hello?" Silence. "Gleason?" Slowly Bobby stood. Eames watched him with wide eyes, cup stalled midway to her lips.

"Bobby?" her voice was a whisper.

He began to pace in a tight circle, right hand to his head. "Honey, Jesus, Gleason – where are you? Are you ok?" Silence. "Gleason? Where are you? Talk to me! Gleason!"

"I want to go home." He could barely hear her.

"Where are you?" Silence. "Gleason, where are you?" Silence. "Tell me where you are. Gleason?"

"Evanston," her voice quivered.

"All right. Stay there; understand? Stay right there. I'll be there in a few hours." He saw Deakins in his office. "Gleason, are you ok? Honey, are you ok?"

"I want to go home."

He shut his eyes and squeezed them with the fingers of his right hand. "I'll be there in a few hours. Stay there." He listened to the silence; he couldn't even hear her breathe. "Gleason, I love you."

She clicked off.

Bobby strode into Deakins' office, "Gleason just called. I need to go to Chicago to get her. I'm going to take a few days."

"Is she ok?" he asked, coming around his desk.

"I, I don't know, she sounded frightened."

"Go."

Bobby drove straight to JFK.

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Four hours later

He told the cabbie to wait, jogged to her door and used his key to enter. Gleason was sitting on the upholstered chair, in the gathering darkness. She stood when he entered and fumbled with her wrap. Bobby was so relieved to see her. Thank God! He crossed to her, took her in his arms and felt her stiffen.

"Honey?" Bobby bent and looked into her face. She looked back at him without expression.

"Take me home."

Bobby asked, "Do you have your pills?" She just looked at him so he took her brown leather shoulder bag from her and opened it. Inside he found a full bottle of heart pills; he went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet and slipped her birth control pills into his pocket and stepped around the corner into the bedroom, her throw lay across the foot of the bed. He grabbed it and returned to her in the living room, she had not moved.

He found her cell phone and charger on the kitchen counter – these weren't here a few weeks ago, he thought – and dropped both into her shoulder bag. Then, he took her by the arm and led her to the door. She waited while he locked it behind them and they walked to the cab. Four hours later, Bobby walked her to his car in short term parking and drove home.

Bobby wanted to ask her everything – where had she been, who had taken her, what was she doing, did they take good care of her, what about … Malcolm. He wanted to talk with her, but sensed this was not the time. He kept glancing over at her; she sat staring out the passenger window, clutching her green throw in her lap.

Once in their apartment, Gleason only wanted to take a shower and go to sleep. Bobby made a pot of tea while she showered and laid out her blue nightgown. He went to check on her, pulled back the shower curtain and found her huddled on the tub floor, sobbing.

"Baby, what's wrong?" He shut off the water and grabbed a bath sheet, wrapping it around her. "Stand up, Gleason. Honey, come on, stand up." He helped her stand and she cried into the towel. He wrapped his arms around her. "Gleason, what's wrong? Honey, you're home now. You're home." He felt her shiver and heard her crying slow. He dried her with the ends of the bath sheet and took another towel for her hair. Bobby tried to gather her hair in the towel, but couldn't – she took it from him and wrapped it expertly around her head. She could not stop shaking. Bobby helped her step over the tub and guided her to the bedroom.

Bobby dressed her as one would help a child dress and put her to bed. "I made you tea, do you want a cup?"

She looked at him and he saw her exhaustion. She stared into his soul; he will take care of me, he loves me, he will still love me. "Aye," she whispered. Bobby took her hand, squeezed it and left to fetch her tea.

He was back within two minutes and found her sound asleep, hair still in the towel. He set her tea on the dresser, went to her and gently removed the towel from her head – she never woke. Bobby went to his side of the bed, undressed to his boxers and crawled in beside her, but he didn't touch her.

They slept.

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October 10

Early Wednesday Morning

"Gleason, Honey, wake up! Gleason! Wake up!" Bobby sat bedside her trying to calm her, trying to catch her flailing arms. She was sitting up, crying, shouting.

"Нет, пожалуйста, нет! Не делайте, не делайте этого! Не делайте, пожалуйста!" NopleasenoDon't, don't do this! Don't, please!

What? What is she saying? He had no idea she spoke Russian.

"Honey, Gleason!"

Slowly, she woke, sobbing, struggling against him, pushing him away, confused.

"Sweetheart, it's me, Bobby. Gleason, look at me! Honey, look at me, it's me. Gleason!" Finally, he had her forearms and held her still. He looked at her, his face showing all the fear and worry he felt.

She stopped, still sobbing, and searched Bobby's face. "Bobby?" she hitched.

"Honey, Honey. Gleason, are you all right? It was a dream, Sweetheart; it was just a dream. You're here with me. Come here." Bobby took her in his arms and Gleason's body shuddered with sobs. He is so warm, so nice and warm.

Slowly, she calmed and pulled away from him, wiping her nose on the edge of the sheet. She wiped her eyes and sighed with a shudder.

Bobby's hand stayed on her back, rubbing gently, "Do you want to tell me what it was?" he asked softly.

She looked at him sharply and shook her head, "No, no, no, Bobby, no!" She was terrified.

"Ok, ok, you don't have to tell me." He smoothed the hair away from her face. "Do you want anything, how about a drink of water?"

Gleason nodded.

"I'll be right back." He leaned in and softly kissed her forehead and did not miss the subtle flinch, then he left the bed and headed for the kitchen.

Gleason's hands went to her face and covered her eyes. It was so real, so real. That man. Grabbing her hair. Pushing her down. Striking her. No, no, no! Don't think of it. Stop! It did not happen. It did not happen. Nothing happened.

"Here, Sweetheart," Bobby handed her the opened bottle and sat facing her on the bed.

Gleason took the bottle, took a drink and choked, spitting water over the sheet and blanket. She coughed and sucked air, coughing and coughing. Bobby patted her back and took the bottle from her. His face was pained, "Slowly, slowly. There, are you ok?"

Again, slowly, she calmed. She nodded and tried to take the bottle from his hand.

"Here, slowly," he said, holding the bottle as he would for a child.

Gleason finished an easy drink and let go of the bottle. She still had not said anything; she shook all over.

Bobby searched every inch of her face. What happened to her? What would cause this nightmare? "Honey, I didn't know you speak Russian."

She looked at him with such a look of confusion. "What?" she whispered.

"Russian, you were calling out in Russian."

Gleason's gaze left his face and went to her lap. "I don't speak Russian." Suddenly she shuddered and a strong shiver shook her. "I'm, I'm cold. I want to go to sleep, back to sleep."

He looked at her for another long second and then covered her up as she settled. He set the water bottle on the night table and climbed in beside her, then reached back and turned off the light; he glanced at the clock – three twenty-one.

Instinctively he curved around her, wrapping his right arm around her. His fingers strayed to her breast and he stroked once.

"Don't! Don't touch me! Stop!" Gleason said aloud, tensing and pushing away his hand, her breath coming shallow and fast.

Bobby was up on his left elbow, "Honey, what? Gleason, what's wrong? Look at me." He tried to turn her toward him, but she shrugged him off and slid away.

"Just, just . . . don't touch me. Please, don't touch me." She pulled up the sheet and blanket over her shoulder and under her ear.

"Gleason, what happened to you? Did someone hurt you? Gleason?" He put his hand on her shoulder, and felt her tense up. "Ok, ok," he snatched his hand away, holding it away from her palm open.

He lay on his back, staring at the darkness. She was raped! Someone raped her while she was gone. That's why she doesn't want me to touch her. Jesus Christ! She was raped!

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October 10

Wednesday

Gleason woke late the next morning. She dressed, washed her face, brushed her teeth and tried to comb out her hair. Bobby found her in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, wincing as she combed out the tangles.

"Good morning," he said, smiling at her in the mirror. He stood behind her, wanting to wrap his arms around her waist, pull her toward him, push against her, kiss her neck, and suck that spot. He wanted to make love to her. Once again, he wanted things to be as they were before. But he did nothing, he stood and watched her groom.

Gleason looked back at him in the mirror; she did not smile and said nothing. She finished combing her hair and braided it into a rope, then wrapped it around her head, pinning it securely.

She turned and moved to step into the hall when Bobby stopped her with his hands on her waist. Gleason looked up into his eyes and said, "Did you make tea?"

He smiled at this simple, normal question, "Yes, Honey, I made a pot of tea. Do you want eggs or cereal, toast?"

"No, just tea," she stepped around him and went the sofa.

Bobby brought her tea and then sat across from her, on the edge of his chair, looking at her. Now, maybe now she would talk with him, tell him everything. "Honey, let's talk about what you were doing."

She looked at him and set the cup on the end table, "I cannot speak of it. My work is done; it is over. I need to get back to my life. I can never speak of it." It was as if she was reciting from a memorized script. Gleason began to shiver and Bobby retrieved her green throw from the bedroom, wrapping it around her shoulders; she sipped the tea and rocked.

For the rest of the day, she was quiet, just sitting and staring. She wouldn't talk. She wouldn't let him touch her. She wouldn't eat. She drank the tea he made and ate a little soup. She was very thin.

Bobby went down to the lobby where he could speak without Gleason hearing him and called Dr. Wendy Fairchild, the women's health psychiatrist at Methodist General. She had spoken with Gleason after the miscarriage. He left his name and number and asked that Dr. Fairchild return his call, then ran back up to the apartment.

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