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Intentional End

Chapter 13

Wednesday Early Evening

October 10

Gleason cried and cried. Bobby tried to console her, but it was as if a damn had burst. She hitched sobs and fell back against the sofa, covering her face in her throw.

"Honey, it's ok. It was her time. Hush; Baby, hush." Bobby dried his eyes on the sleeves of his undershirt and wiped his nose with the hem. "Baby, please." He pulled her up, held her and molded her into him.

Slowly Gleason calmed, pulled away, wiped her face with her throw and looked at him with such pain, clutching the front of his tee shirt. "I am so sorry, Bobby. I am so sorry. I wasn't here. I wasn't here for you; for her. I am so sorry." She continued to hitch sobs and then jolted from the sofa, hand over her mouth – gagging.

He followed her to the bathroom, picking up her throw as it fell from her back on the way down the hall. Gleason bent over the toilet, retching, throwing up nothing as her stomach held nothing to give.

Bobby held her, letting the throw slip to the floor. What is wrong with her? Why is she vomiting? She won't eat. She needs to see a doctor.

Gleason finally stopped retching and slumped against him. He wiped his hand over her forehead, pushing away loose strands of curly red hair. With one hand, he wet a washcloth and wiped her face with it. She took it from him, straightened and rewet it, wiping her face and neck.

"Baby, what's wrong with you? Why do you keep throwing up?"

She looked at him in the mirror and then reached for her toothbrush. She brushed her teeth and then undid her pants, pulled them down and sat on the toilet to pee. He was surprised, as Gleason was modest about such functions. Bobby looked away, and then he stepped into the hallway, picked up her throw, and then entered the bedroom, his hand running down the back of his neck. He heard the toilet flush and turned as she entered.

It was as if nothing had happened, her affect was flat again. Gleason snatched the throw from his hands and moved to her side of the bed. She began to undress and said flatly, "I'm going to bed. Ok?" she asked. Bobby nodded and went to shut off lights and lock the door, his mind spinning.

They slept their second night together, neither touching the other. Bobby lay awake for hours, listening to her breathe, tensing at her whimpers, wanting to touch her, hold her. Eventually, he slept.

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"Mommy?" the child hollered, wandering up the path, looking right and left. "Mom-mee!" he called, his face streaked with tears, red and sweaty. "Dad-dee?!" he was so tired and he could not find his mommy and daddy. Christian sat down hard on the gravel path and cried aloud, his tiny left arm across his eyes.

Gleason stood at the stone wall and looked everywhere. She clambered up on and looked up toward the top of the hill. Where is he? Dear God, where is he? "Tian?" she cried, "Chris, where are you?" She felt sick to her stomach.

The child lay down on the rocky path, hitching deep sobs, his nose running into his mouth. He curled up onto his side and slid his left thumb into his mouth; his nose was stuffed and he couldn't breathe, so his hand fell to dirt in front of his face. Tears continued to run from his eyes as he sobbed without crying. They left me here; they don't want me, he thought, they don't want me, and he cried anew.

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Gleason turned over and whimpered; then, a conscious thought registered – she was going to throw up. But, it passed and again she slid into the dream. She whimpered again then called out. Bobby roused and looked over his shoulder at his wife, ready to wake her if need be. Gleason settled and Bobby let himself fall back to sleep.

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"Daddy?" the child hollered, wandering up the path, looking right and left. "Dad-dee!" he called, his face streaked with tears, red and sweaty. "Mom-mee?!" he was so tired and he could not find his mommy and daddy. Christian sat down hard on the gravel path and cried aloud, his tiny left arm across his eyes.

Bobby wandered through the trees at the foot of the cornfield, not wanting to think his son had gone into the rows. "Chris! Chris, where are you?" he yelled.

The child lay down upon the rocky path, hitching deep sobs, his nose running into his mouth. He curled up onto his side and slid his left thumb into his mouth; his nose was stuffed and he couldn't breathe, so his hand fell to dirt in front of his face. Tears continued to run from his eyes as he sobbed without crying. They left me here; they don't want me, he thought, they don't want me, and he cried anew.

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Bobby moaned and shifted onto his back, his left arm bending on the pillow, above his head. He breathed heavily and then whined softly. He woke slowly and felt the heavy darkness that always signaled a bad dream. He couldn't remember it and realised he didn't want to. He listened to Gleason breathe slowly, steadily and then looked at the clock, four-eighteen. He knew he would not be able to go back to sleep, so he got up, pulled on his jeans, stopped in the bathroom and then went into the living room.

He sat in his chair in the dark, thinking about Gleason, what might have happened to her. Why is she so nauseous, he wondered. Then, it occurred to him that she might be – no, no. Yet, she had eaten only the bread from her sandwich and she had craved bread when she was pregnant last year. He knew in his heart that she had been raped while she was gone! No, no, no! Bobby felt himself get hot, physically hot and he twisted in his chair. No, she is not pregnant because she has been taking birth control pills since the miscarriage. Right? She's been taking her pills, right? Bobby couldn't ever remember seeing her take them; nor did he even know if she had them on their honeymoon. She was taking her birth control pills, he told himself. She's not pregnant. She's not. She can't be.

Eventually, Bobby fell asleep in his chair.

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Thursday Morning

October 11

Gleason woke and knew she was alone in the bed. She rolled onto her back and fought the wave of nausea. Oh God, she felt awful. Where is he? she wondered. Gleason slid her arm up and down Bobby's side of the bed and fought a gag, oh, God. Where is he? Slowly her eyes opened and she thought again, remembering – where is he? That dream. Christian. Where is he?

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Gleason washed her face and refused to throw up, brushing her teeth nearly made her do it. She dressed and found Bobby slumped in his chair, snoring softly. She stood and watched him, a flood of conflicting emotions coursing through her mind. She sighed deeply and entered the kitchen.

Bobby woke and groaned at the pain in his shoulder as he straightened in the chair. He stood, rolled his head and headed into the kitchen. He stood behind her at the kitchen sink, put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded gently. He felt himself move; god, he wanted her. Gleason didn't tense up as she had yesterday.

"Gleason, Honey, turn around," Bobby said softly and gently turned her to face him. Gleason turned and looked up at him; Bobby stared back at her and then tentatively bent to kiss her. He moved his hands to her neck, under her jaw and then softly, softly he placed his lips against hers. She did not flinch, nor did she pull away. His right arm slid to her back and he hugged her closer. She returned his kiss and stepped into him. She felt him rise against her. His tongue slid along her lips and she opened to him, he moaned softly, his breathing quickened. His hand moved down her back to her waist and onto her bottom, squeezing gently, pulling her toward him as he pushed against her.

Then she tensed and pulled back. "No, no, stop, don't! Let me go," her arms sped to his chest and she pushed away, turning. "Don't, don't. Please."

Bobby let go of her and stepped back, breathing hard, bending slightly to ease the erection straining against his jeans. "What, what's wrong? Gleason?"

Gleason stepped away and moved to the living room, arms across her chest, hugging herself. She did not look at Bobby leaning on the edge of the table. His head hung down, eyes squeezed shut tight. He was fuming and did not want to be angry with her. Jesus Christ! He wanted her, it had been so long; he wanted to love her, make love to her. Why won't she? What happened to her?

"Bobby?" she said softly. He did not look up. He could not look at her because he was afraid she would see his anger. She waited. When he did not respond, she went to the closet and took her wrap and then she heard Bobby say, "Don't leave!" It was louder than he intended. He pushed up off the table and came around it.

"Gleason, you have to talk to me. Tell me what happened. Where were you? What were you doing? What happened? Why the fuck won't you let me make love to you?" He was getting angrier; he fought himself for control. Fists clenching and unclenching, he forced himself to breath slowly. He took a step toward her and she turned and pulled open the door. Bobby was on her in a flash, "No! No, you are going nowhere. Goddamn it, Gleason!" He reached over her and leaned on the door, holding it shut. She stopped and cowered.

"Не поражайте меня. Не травмируйте меня! Пожалуйста." Do not hit me. Do not hurt me! Please.

He took her by the arms and bent to look into her face, "Gleason? Honey, look at me."

"Я не буду идти. Я останусь. Не травмируйте меня. Я сделаю то, что Вы хотите."

I won't go. I'll stay. Don't hurt me. I'll do what you want. She would not look at him, continuing to cower.

"Gleason! Gleason, look at me. Look at me!" Bobby shook her gently. "Gleason, Baby, look at me." He shook her again.

Gleason peered up at him and quickly looked away. She wrenched out of his grip and backed against the door. Bobby stared at her and she looked at the floor. "Gleason, can you understand me?"

She looked at him and shouted, "What do you want from me!" She pulled off her wrap and tossed it over the back of Bobby's chair. Then she strode around him, heading for the bedroom.

He followed her and sat beside her on the bed, and then he ran his hand down the back of his neck. "Gleason, I want to know what you did, where you were. I want to know why you speak Russian. I wa --,"

"I don't speak Russian, Bobby! Why do you keep saying that?" she screamed at him. She stood and Bobby stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

"Gleason, sit down. Listen to me." She looked at him and then sat. "Gleason, something is wrong. You are fearful, you, you DO speak Russian; you won't let me touch you. Honey, I, I want to know what happened. Tell me; Gleason, just talk to me."

She looked at him, her eyes closed slowly, and she said, "I cannot talk about anything. Nothing is wrong. It is your imagination. Put it out of your mind." Her eyes opened, she looked at him and then stood, moving past him to the kitchen.

Bobby sat with his elbows on his knees, head down, fingers laced on the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he heard her speaking to someone. He stood and walked to the end of the hall.

"Я не сказал ему ничто. Вы не имеете ничего, чтобы волноваться о. ItoldhimnothingYou have nothing to worry about.

"Я понимаю. Оставьте его в покое. Я заставлю его остановиться. IunderstandLeave him alone. I'll make him stop.

"Да, да, не волнуйтесь. Это закончится. Я уверен." Yesyesdon'tworryIt will end. I am certain.

Gleason listened for nearly two minutes and then opened her eyes, flipped shut her phone, stood a minute, turned and saw Bobby staring at her as if he didn't know who she was.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked.

She looked at him and he saw her confusion. Gleason looked down at the phone in her hand and then back at him. He took the phone from her and looked at 'Call History,' the last entry showed 'no incoming information,' the time code showed four minutes ago.

"What's happening to me?" she mewled. Bobby set her phone on the end table and took her in his arms.

"It's ok, Sweetheart. It's ok." He rocked her gently.

Surprisingly, Gleason did not cry. It is so good when he holds me, he is so warm, she thought. He will keep me safe; he loves me. He is the police; he will keep them away. Gleason felt confusion – keep whom away? Oh, Bobby feels good, he is strong, he smells good. Gleason moved against him. She felt herself moisten. It has been so long, such a long time.

"Bobby?" she said against his chest.

"Hmmmm?"

"Make love to me."

Bobby pulled away from her, looking down into her eyes. He was confused, he didn't know who she was; he didn't trust what she said.

"Honey, let's just see what happens tonight. Ok?"

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Thursday Evening

Bobby suggested they go to dinner and they walked to Porcini's, two blocks east. They said little on the way and at the table. Bobby watched her eat roll after roll slathered with butter. She picked at her food, eating only the bread; he asked for a second basket and Gleason took home the rest.

Walking home, they held hands; after a block, Bobby put his arm around her. It all seemed so normal and his mind raced with possibilities. If all had been well, they would make love when they got home. But nothing was as it should be.

"Do you want anything?" he asked her, hanging up her wrap and then his jacket.

She walked into the kitchen, took a bottle of water for herself, a beer for him and the tub of butter and set them on the table. She sat and opened the bag of rolls, selected one and opened the butter, "Would you get me a knife, please?" she said as Bobby entered.

Bobby came around the table and sat, reaching back to the drawer for the opener and a knife. He handed it to her, flipped the cap from his beer, set the opener aside and looked at her, waiting, watching her spread butter on the roll.

She set down the roll and said, "Bobby, you know I love you and always will. You know that, right?" She glanced at him and he nodded.

She continued, "I, I don't know where I was or what I was doing. I remember nothing. You say I speak Russian – I don't think so, but why would you make up something like that? I was very confused and frightened when I woke up in the apartment. I don't know how I got there. I called you because I was afraid. I don't remember anything."

"What is the last thing you do remember?"

She thought a minute and then answered, "I remember meeting two men in the conference room in Townsend. Dr. Manlowe and Malcolm were there. I remember signing a paper and then walking to a van. I asked if I could call you and they said someone would inform you." Gleason stopped and thought, and then said, "That's all I remember. Did they call you?"

Bobby's mind reeled – two men, signed a paper, Dr. Manlowe, a van – these were pieces to the puzzle. "Uh, no, Honey, no. An agent met me in Deakins' office and told me you would be away. He said I should just wait for your return; that I should not try to find you. He said you were safe."

Gleason watched Bobby as he relayed all of this. "Did you try to find me?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, of course I did, Sweetheart!" he reached for her hand. "I did everything to try to find you. However, Deakins told me to stop looking. I have no idea how he knew I was searching, but he knew."

They sat quietly for a long moment. Gleason pulled away her hand and took up the roll, pulling it apart the roll and eating bites; Bobby drank his beer. "We cannot speak of this again, do you understand, Bobby? We cannot talk about this ever again. Promise me it is behind us. Promise."

Bobby searched her face. He would promise never to speak about it, but he would not stop investigating. He had to find out where she was, what she did and who had raped her. He took her hand and squeezed it, "I promise."

Gleason smiled and it seemed as though a weight lifted from her frame. "I'm so cold." They both stood and Bobby set his nearly empty bottle in the sink while Gleason wrapped up the last of the rolls and returned the butter to the fridge. Bobby shut off the light over the sink, checked the locks on the door and followed Gleason down the hall.

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