I'm not sure what day it is supposed to be in the story, so I'm going to assume it is a Saturday. If you've kept track better than me and know it's a different day, let me know.

This is another hard chapter, but I'm hoping that most of the big angsty stuff will be resolved in the next two to three chapters, so hold on. We will get there.

36.

The rest of Saturday passed in a blur. My grief, anger and a sort of dullness that was perhaps an overarching depression, of being completely overwhelmed, made it so. I put one foot in front of the other when walking, remained upright when standing, answered questions with monosyllables when they were asked of me, and ate a few bites of food when Rick took me to a restaurant. When I heard the alert tones on my phone, it still stayed in my pocket. I felt no curiosity about what might be happening in the larger world, and very little interest about what was happening right in front of me, also. Being there, in my own body, it was as if it was all happening to someone else, was just some old black and white movie I had on in the background.

When I had an independent thought it was just Why? and What is the point of carrying on? and How can there be a God if he allows all of this to happen?

I just wished I could fast forward my life, like Adam Sandler did in that movie, Click. Except I would not keep skipping forward, just hurry through this current bit until there was a resolution with G.G., for surely there had to be something better for her after this. But then I imagined her having the baby, a baby girl, G.G. turning eighteen and managing to reunite with George. Evan worse than imagining him with her, was the thought that perhaps George would do stuff to their little girl, too.

Maybe I would want to fast forward through many, many years. I could not imagine living in this misery forever.

I found myself at the end of the day in my hotel room, reclined on my bed (still in my clothes), a blanket pulled over me, listening with a kind of dull indifference (but less dull than it was before) as I heard Rick speak to his parents, Uncle Dick and Aunt Angie, on the phone. It was one or the other of them, or maybe both. Who it was did not seem to matter much to me and I had almost no interest in the conversation even though it was about G.G. and then me.

But my ears, designed as they are for listening, refused to not work. And my mind insisted on translating those sounds into words and sentences and meanings. In that sense I must have been a bit better than before, for I could not remember much of the conversation with the social worker and others after I knew George Wickham was on the loose. I heard only Rick's part of the conversation, for he was sitting in a chair across the room from me, keeping me in sight but perhaps trying to let me sleep if I could. But as bogged down as my mind was, even when I closed my eyes (which was slightly soothing, Had my eyelids ever felt so heavy before?, so I kept them closed) my sluggish, nightmarish thoughts would not give me the peace of sleep.

First Rick told them about the whole situation with G.G. and Wickham, all of it, including G.G. being pregnant, her accusations about us and how G.G. had attacked him. Then he told them some things that I had not understood, but had likely been discussed right in front of me. He explained that we had a free day tomorrow but had another meeting with the head psychiatrist and social worker on Monday. He also explained that Dr. Cassin had decided not to report the incident for legal prosecution, told us to trust him on the fact that this was the right decision, for if she entered the justice system we would have no control over the situation at all. He explained that he had previous patients who were highly damaged in such a setting, abused by others. She might even seek out a such a situation as it would be normalized now for her to see her body as a means to an end, view sexual acts as transactional rather tied to a meaningful, intimate relationship.

Instead, the doctor would take the whole incident as proof she was very ill, would write his recommendation with the right words that it was almost guaranteed that she would be remanded. Dr. Cassin had explained that he would used words like "possibly schizophrenia" "delusional" "highly dangerous" "paranoid" and "Stockholm syndrome" but that these were not diagnoses, just the things he needed to say. Rick related that the doctor also told us that, perhaps, after a month or a few months, we could take her back to the United States and place her in a treatment facility of our own choosing, if they could get her stable enough for medical transport and do that through all the official channels.

Rick fell quiet then and I imagined my aunt giving him an earful. It gave me some time to ponder the situation further.

I could get G.G. into the best treatment facility that money could buy, but could that ever be enough? She'd feel like she was a prisoner, resent me even more, and the whole time that baby would be growing in her, tying her inextricably to George Wickham. And who wasn't to say that even now he might be wending himself back to the States, biding his time to spring up like some horror movie cursed jack-in-the-box.

That put to mind the jack-in-the box on the Island of Misfit Toys. I had watched the stop motion classic Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer way too many times with G.G., both before and after our parents died. My mom had loved that movie. It was a Darcy family tradition to watch it every year.

G.G. had been both creeped out and facinated by the charlie-in-the-box. She used to bury her head in our mother's shoulder when he came on the screen. She had been scared of him rather than the abdominal snowman.

I had just thought it odd that the charlie-in-the-box simply couldn't change his name to Jack, or that a child who received him from Santa would even know what his name was. And in today's world, where people can change gender just by making an announcement, a different name surely didn't make him a misfit.

It was G.G. who was the misfit now, twisted and warped by her abuse, showing no signs that the girl I still loved so dearly was in there at all. Of course I would still love G.G., whoever she might turn out to be, but she was making it almost impossible to like her, when she was George's willing accomplice in her iwn degradation.

I couldn't imagine that even if we could somehow get G.G. back after such treatment that things could ever return to being as they should be. Heck, how could I even have her in my home when being alone with her would allow her to accuse me again? Our aunt and uncle would be similarly vulnerable. Even if G.G. somehow reformed, how could we ever trust that it was true?

I doubted even then that my aunt and uncle would ever want their daughter Emily to spend time with G.G. again, for G.G. would forever be a bad influence, damaged, broken, one of "those" sorts of people, who his mother would avoid even as she made sympathetic, clucking sounds about such a "poor dear" in that "situation." Aunt Angie might donate to a charity designed to help people like G.G., but she would never volunteer to tend to them in person.

"I'm worried about Bill," Rick said to his parents, sounding, well, worried. "He isn't himself at all. It's worse than it was before."

Quiet as they replied.

"I'm not sure. That's why two guardians were appointed for her, after all."

Silence again.

"Yes, he is seeing a counselor."

Quiet once more.

"But he is here and she is there."

Silence but for Rick's agitated pacing.

"Yes, you are right."

Silence.

"Okay."

Silence and pacing.

"No."

Silence.

"I can't remember. Maybe I can figure it out from his phone? But I don't think I know the code."

Silence.

"Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Love you."

A beep indicated the call had ended.

Light steps approached me, stopping by the left side of the bed. A soft, gentle tone, the sort of tone someone uses with a small and fretful child, an invalid.

"Bill, are you awake?"

I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling, noted a slight crack in the plaster. I could see Rick to the side in my peripheral vision, could see the concern in his vague shape, half bent toward me.

"Yes." I said. I recall I flicked my eyes toward him and then away, back to the ceiling, with my eyes marching along the crack, estimating its dimensions. I remember knowing that I really could not care a fig about the crack, but that it was easier to focus on it than the earlier events of the day. I remember wishing the crack would spread, crackle and burst, and the upper hotel floors would just crash down on me and cover me up, take me out of this life in one smooth motion, a flicker of pain and then death.

"Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?" Rick asked, pulling my eyes toward him.

"Nuh-uh."

"Bill, can I call your counselor?"

Counselor. Ms. Berry. Grace. I could almost see her office then, the coffee table with the white pens with different colored caps, hear the puff, puff of her diffuser, smell its lavender scent, see the board games I would never play. And in her chair was Ms. Berry, wearing one of her typical dresses, with her warm eyes and understanding expression, patiently waiting for me to speak. She had listened as I confessed everything that happened with Caroline, had helped me understand what had happened to me. She hadn't judged, she had helped me to work through it, was still helping me work through it and everything else. I knew then that she could help me with this, too.

"Yes." I thought some more. "I would like to talk to her."

Rick retrieved my phone from where it was charging on the side table. I didn't remember how it got there. He handed it to me. "Would you unlock the phone? It is Ms. Berry, right?"

My fingers were already swiping the pattern. When the lock screen cleared, I saw a number five next to messages. I called them up.

I glanced at the list of unread messages:

Mrs. Reynolds

Unknown Number (blocked)

Ms. Berry

Elizabeth Bennet

Unknown Number (my same area code)

I felt a jolt of something, a sudden alertness like I had just downed a caffinated beverage, when I saw Elizabeth's name in that simple font. I sat up as all our most recent interactions came flooding back. She had offered to go out on a date with me when I returned, she had empathized with me about the whole G.G. situation and she had asked about if I could testify and help Jane regarding Charlie's domestic violence. There, at least, was a situation where I might well do some good. But I knew my primary responsibility lay with my sister however little I might be able to do for her while she was institutionalized and I was out here.

Recalling how awful things were regarding G.G. and Wickham, and how there was no hope of returning for that date anytime soon, I felt like I had just been drenched by a bucket of icy water. It was as if being reminded of happy feelings regarding Elizabeth had made everything seem worse with G.G. by contrast. Something broke loose in me then and I began sobbing, really, really sobbing as I rhetorically asked, or maybe I was asking God, the universe, Rick, or even Elizabeth, Ms. Berry or Mrs. Reynolds who seemed partially present just from the list of their texts. "Oh God, what'll become of G.G.? How can things be so bad? Can there be any hope at all? Or is she lost forever?"

Rick pulled me into his arms and soon we were sobbing together, him joining in as much as me. I cannot recall ever crying as hard as I did then, not when my parents, one after another, died, not when I found out G.G. was being molested, not when I finally understood just what Caroline had done to me. I just let loose, was a howling mess of tears and snot. There was something primal about it, as if all of my civilized veneer had just melted away, leaving an unhinged boy.

I have no idea how long it lasted, but I know that Rick pulled himself together first, fetched the cheap hotel toilet paper for my nose, and then later a wet wash cloth, attending to me as if I were that boy. I let him, too, only grabbing the wash cloth from him after he had thoroughly cleaned the mucus from my lips and chin.

I kept sobbing and began to hiccup as I blew my nose into that wet and rough wash cloth, but could not keep up the earlier torrent forever. The pace slowed. I felt rung out, but better, too, Although my nose and throat were sore and my eyes stung, I felt cleaner, more at ease. It was a good cry. I had not known the truth of that expression before then.

Rick waited patiently, sitting beside me on the bed and rubbing at my back and shoulder. He is not a touchy-feely guy, so the fact that he had hugged me earlier and was doing this much now was quite something. Rick also sometimes mumbled, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. Let it all out. There you go."

Eventually, I began to feel self-conscious. I stood up, pulling myself away from him. Through my blurred and stinging eyes, I looked and him and asked, "Rick, what are we going to do?"

"Well, first, we are going to take care of you, and each other. Really, the whole situation is beyond us. Way above our pay grade. It is a matter for the police and the psychiatrists now, and if they can't fix the situation than it is up to God."

"God? God! The same God who let all of this happen to G.G. in the first place? If there is a God than he is a sadistic SOB," I shouted. I felt very angry now.

Rick didn't meet my anger with anger. He answered me calmly but with certainty. "The world is a sinful place, full of evil. In giving us free will, we can chose to harm other people, but Wickham will get his in the end."

I didn't want to engage in a religious debate. I was rung out, raw, and feeling bitter. There was no fairness in the world, none at all.

"Rick, I mean this in the kindest possible way, but shove it. I'm going to take a shower and then I'll contact Ms. Berry myself, and after that I plan to make an early night of it. No need to stay with me. Get out."

I could tell from his expression that Rick really didn't like any of what I said, but while I was speaking he kept his lips tightly together and then afterwards he said "Okay." He marched toward the door and then paused, turning back toward me. "If you're sure . . . ."

"I am."

"Well, I'm just a room away if you need anything. Please come on over or call, no matter the time."

"Okay," I told him knowing that I wouldn't.

When he left, I looked at the list of people who had texted. I both wanted to and didn't want to see what they had written. But then I decided I had better shower, for doubtless Rick would hear the absence of that sound if I didn't.

In the shower I cried some more, but the water drowned my sounds of distress and washed all the evidence away. As I was towling myself off, I wondered if G.G. or Elizabeth had ever cried in the shower. I hoped that Elizabeth had never felt as wretched as I did then.

I got dressed in my lounge/sleepwear, sat in a chair and called up Ms. Berry's text, my towel dried hair dripping down my neck. Bill, this is Grace Berry. Will you be back by Monday or should we do an online session? I really want to do one or the other because I'm quite certain you are dealing with a lot of emotions whatever the resolution of the situation there. Please let me know.

It wasn't until I had read her text that I recalled asking for an online session if I wasn't back yet. How naive I had been to even think I might return home so soon?

I didn't like to think about possibly getting all emotional with Ms. Berry, but I also knew that she could help me sort everything out, and that Rick would want me to accept, so I texted back my agreement to an online session, adding only Thanks for remembering. The situation here is very bad, and I'm terribly worried about my sister.

That done, I went through the other messages, with the plan to leave Elizabeth's for last. Mrs. Reynolds was asking how things were with G.G. and updating me on buyout negotiations for a business we were acquiring. I thanked her for the update and then pasted in the same sentence I had told Ms. Berry about G.G. and hit "send."

The first unknown number was up next. Just the first sentence was enough for me to know who it was and my still damp skin suddenly felt clammy. Phone in hand, barely with the presence of mind to grab my room key, I trotted out in my barefeet to Rick's room next door. I knocked in a long burst and he opened the door almost immediately. I came through and handed the phone to him.

"What is this?" Rick asked.

"I hardly know. I just started to read it and then knew you needed to read it, too. It must be from George Wickham."

We sat side by side on a yellowing loveseat on scratched up wooden legs that needed to be reappolstered, sanded and refinished, or be thrown in a dumpster. We read the message together.

I'm long gone and they'll never find me.They may have taken my sweet G.G. away, but she'll be back with me as soon as she is out and baby makes three.

He's mine, without a doubt. I waited until we were sure she caught, had the two blue lines before we put her on offer. It was her idea, she's such a delectable little slut.

I might be persuaded to leave them in your care if you get them to drop the charges and pay her trust fund over to me. I'm sure I can find another lively Lola then, and stay out of your hair.

Think about it. I'll be in touch.

Rick recovered first. "Screen shot it, all of it, and send it to our P.I. I've got the lead investigator's card; we'll send it to him, too. If we're very, very lucky, this will help them catch him or add to his charges. I don't know if there is a way to find out a blocked number, but I'm no techie.

"Heck, send it to Mr. McCowan and Dr. Cassin, too. Maybe if they show her how he'd dump her for her money will help G.G. finally see the truth."

My outrage at George Wickham's audacity transformed to hope. Maybe we had finally caught a break.

A/N: G.W. surprised me here. Will this message make any difference to G.G. or is she too far gone to recognize the truth and just think it is all part of George's plan to keep them together forever?

Who else do you think messaged Bill? What message do you think Elizabeth sent?