January 15, 1991

She has to go to the store. She's on her twenty-third shower in ten days, and she's out of shower gel- hers and Henry's. She prefers Henry's. There is something about being able to smell him on her skin that is comforting. Maybe because his scent is familiar, and she loves the way he smells. Maybe because the smell of him is masculine and strong, and it makes her feel protected. Whatever the reason, she needs it. She's out of bread, too. And she's scraped the jar of peanut butter nearly clean as it's the only thing she's been able to stomach. She's pouring the very last of her sugar into the very last of her coffee, and she knows she can't keep hiding.

Knowing she needs to go out does nothing to make her less scared of joining the world once again. She's terrified. She spends time looking at her clothes—deciding. She wants to be invisible—that's new for her. She wants to pick something that would be hard for someone to remove from her body—she's never considered that when getting dressed before, either. She jumps into a pair of jeans that must be a size too small for her as she can barely squeeze them on, and they hug her hips and her thighs like a glove. She adds a belt as another layer of protection. No one could pull these down her legs. She throws on a turtle neck, and then once again, she throws Henry's Steelers sweatshirt over it. Using the sweatshirt, she has effectively removed any notion of the womanly shape underneath. She grabs her cash out of her wallet, not wanting to bog herself down with a bag. She has her keys in her hand.

She stares at the door leading to the outside world. She knows she needs to jump the hurdle and open the door. She can't hide in her apartment forever. And yet, the fear she feels is overwhelming. She stares at the door, feeling ridiculous. She doesn't want to be a hermit. Elizabeth has always loved the world. She has always strived to find the best in humanity. She has always strived to have fun and live life to the fullest. And now, the simple act of going outside and buying things for her daily routine seems impossible. How can she let that man do this to her? She takes a breath and steels herself- not unlike the day after her parents' funeral when she realized she would be the one raising her brother. But she needs something—something to help her feel protected and safe.

She goes back to her bedroom and grabs her dad's pocket knife from under her pillow. Her dad had babied this little ivory-handled folder. He had taught her how to sharpen it the summer he taught her and Will how to fly fish. It's not big, and it's certainly not threatening. But the weight in her pocket and the feel of the smooth handle in her palm helps her take a breath. She wonders if it contains the part of her father that's still with her somewhere. She has been thinking about her parents a lot lately. And not in the normal, missing them kind of way. She's been thinking about what they would think of her now. She's been thinking about what advice they would have for her. And she's been wondering if they would be ashamed of her or worried for her—maybe both. She knows she feels ashamed. She knows she is worried about herself and her new agoraphobic tendencies.

This time, she only pauses at the front door for a few seconds. The frigid winter air hits her lungs, and she nearly freezes. Her hands and cheeks instantly grow numb. She reminds herself it's winter- it's cold because it's winter, not because she's in danger. She looks around once more before making a beeline for her car. Once inside the vehicle, she feels a sense of security. She knows that there is a barrier between her and the rest of the world. She takes a deep breath and turns the ignition. The cold, mixed with the fact this car has only sat for the last week and a half, has made the engine a little weaker. After three attempts, she roars to life. She takes another breath and puts the car in reverse. You can do it, Lizzie. You can do it. She tells herself as she backs out of the parking space. She keeps repeating it as she drives.

She finds herself circling the parking lot of her local Giant Foods three times, looking for a spot close to the door. It dawns on her that she has never thought about her safety like that before—especially during what she considers everyday tasks. A mom in a minivan saves her from continuing to circle the lot by pulling out of a spot. She pulls into the spot and looks around her before unlocking her door to exit her car. Surprisingly she takes comfort in the amount of people around her. For a Tuesday mid-morning, it's mostly stay-at-home mothers and homemakers. She likes that someone would be around if she had a reason to scream.

She white knuckles her buggy. She feels as if every single pair of eyes in the store are on her- as if they can see what happened to her. She feels naked. She can't shake the feeling of being watched. It's like he's around every corner. Like he's following her, stalking her. She has to turn around and check. There is a part of her that can feel the irrationality of those thoughts, but that doesn't seem to matter. And so she has to check, and the feeling of being followed only increases.

Her hand has become numb, and her fingers are aching as she stands in front of the toiletries aisle. She hears a baby coo and a woman's laughter, and she spins around and scans the area. Her heart is racing, and she can't slow it down. She makes unexpected eye contact with the mom, who gives her a weirdly understanding and knowing smile.

"You'll be okay, hun," The woman says quietly as she passes by her onto the next aisle. Elizabeth wonders for a moment if her mother sent her that woman. Elizabeth needs something to hold on to—a little hope to get her through this.

She doesn't make eye contact with the cashier. It's not that he's a man. It's not that he scares her. It's something deeper in her mind. She can't look anyone in the eyes anymore. It's as if she's waiting for them to reveal themselves as monsters. And so she avoids everyone's gaze, especially the young man behind the register. She hopes this doesn't become her life—being hypervigilant, jumpy, and just plain old scared.

Her next hurdle is loading the car. To that she must exit the store and walk to her car. That's the first step. She breaks it down in her head. It's a method her dad taught her for playing eighteen. You can't think about the entire course, Euclid. It's too big, and it'll overwhelm you. You have to break it down, one hole at a time. She looks around the parking lot and then braves the winter air once again. She does a slight jog to her car. She peers inside the windows, verifying there is not anyone lying in wait for her. She unlocks her door and puts the bags in the backseat. She contemplates leaving the cart there, but she's always had a thing for rules. Little Lizzie "Goody Two Shoes" Adams—that phrase had been used to make fun of her more than once. So she decides to bring the cart to the corral and deals with the discomfort. She can't stop scanning her surroundings as she returns the buggy and walks back to her car. She scans the inside of her car once more before climbing back into the driver's seat and locking herself inside.

On the drive home, her motto changes. You did it. Good job, Lizzie. You did it.

That victory parade ends when she pulls into her parking space at her apartment complex. She must get all of the bags out of the car, unlock her door, and then get them inside. Three steps. Break it down, Euclid. Her breathing is ragged, and her chest feels tight. Her heart is beating out of her chest, and she can't shake the feeling of someone watching her. She can't stay in the car. It simply isn't an option. She looks around her. The complex is quiet, which should be a comfort. Nothing ever happens here. And yet, her nerves are skyrocketing. She grabs all her bags at once, not caring about the weight. She walks to her door as fast as she possibly can. She unlocks the door and practically throws her bags on the floor. She shuts the door behind her and locks it. She slumps against the door as tears fill her eyes. She takes a deep breath to help her nerves calm.

She looks around the kitchen as she carries the bags in. It's a mess. There are dishes piled in the sink that need to be washed. The counter needs to be scrubbed down. She starts to realize all the things she's neglected over the last ten days: dishes, laundry, studying, and cleaning. For ten days, she's sat in the corner of her couch, clutching a throw pillow and staring into space. Henry wouldn't let her do that if he were home. Henry would help her. He would wash the dishes. He would put the laundry in the wash. He would take care of her when it's obvious she isn't taking care of herself.

She presses play on her blinking answering machine as she begins to unpack the first bag.

"Hey babe, you must not be home. I want to let you know that in a couple of days, you're going to see some stuff on the news. I want you to know that I'm going to make sure I'm careful. I will make sure I make it home to you. I love you so much, Elizabeth. Okay? I love you. I'll call you as soon as I can. Also, thanks for the picture." Henry's voice fills the room.

She had forgotten about the Polaroid she stuck in the pages of his Bible—the photo she had taken for him before. Is that how she will now separate her life: before and after? She already has two before and after's: before and after her parent's deaths, before and after Henry. The thought makes her sick. And now this- before and after that morning. That photo was taken before her body was taken and used before the shame and before the fear. That's not her anymore.

She bows her head. That's not the part of the message that should be her focus. Her husband is going into combat. That should be what her attention is on. And yet, here she is, fixating on that picture. That stupid, silly picture that she had taken to make his time away from her easier.

She's hit with a sudden burst of energy. It's not the good kind that makes one want to seize a moment. It's the kind that makes one restless. It's the kind that makes one unable to sit still. Her apartment is suddenly suffocating. The walls feel like they're closing in on her. She starts with the dishes—scrubbing them too hard with too much soap under water that's too hot. She throws her laundry into the washer, using an amount of detergent that can't be good for the machine. And she's almost positive she ripped a button off one of Henry's shirts in her haste.

But it's the bathroom that gets the brunt of her anger. She scrubs the floor on her hands and knees where the clothes she had been wearing that day had laid until she threw them out. Then she's scrubbing at the tub—the place where all the things she had rinsed off her had landed. She can't get it clean enough. She hates herself. She hates that this happened. She hates scrubbing at her bathtub drain with a toothbrush because nothing feels clean enough.

January 5, 2019

"I need to take a shower," she whispers, beginning to extract herself from her husband's arms. She hates the feeling of the imaginary grime on her skin. It makes her feel crazy. It's not real. Yet the feeling of being covered by that man, of his hands and his sweat and his mouth and his saliva are burned into her skin. And they are not a memory- they are a sensation. They are a reality. And so even though it's not real, it feels real. And it makes her feel so dirty.

"Yeah?" Henry asks, his eyes searching for her face. He can see the desperation in her features, the pain. He wishes he could do something, anything, to make her feel better. He feels utterly useless.

"Yeah," she confirms, kicking her heels off before standing. Henry can see the invisible weight hanging on her shoulders, her entire body. He watches as her shoulders roll forward, her back hunching. Her head hangs low, and her arms hang limply by her sides. She looks exhausted, and the fight that had been inside of her earlier has completely vanished.

He hangs his head as she walks upstairs. He can't stop himself from replaying the conversation in his head. He knows the best thing to do right now is give her space. The last thing he wants to do is smother her. He can't hold his tears back any longer. His wife and best friend had been hurt three decades ago, and she never told him. He feels like a bad partner, a bad friend. How could he not have known? It was obvious in hindsight, but at the time, he had no clue. He feels so guilty- for not being there, for never asking questions. It was an active decision not to ask questions. It was a conscious choice he had made not to push her. And yet, here he sits, wishing he had.

He makes his way slowly up the stairs, wiping his eyes as he goes. He can hear the water running in their ensuite. He takes a seat on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room as he suddenly becomes unsure of every time he walked into the bathroom without knocking. He's unsure of every single move he's ever made that could be construed as a lack of respect for her.

In the shower, she's scrubbing at her skin. She is crazy. She almost sees the outline of his hands on her forearms. She finds herself laughing at the absurdity. What is happening to her? She was fine. She used to be fine.

When she reappears in their room, Henry smiles at the old sweatshirt she's wearing—the old Steelers one she got him too long ago. There are now a couple of holes in it, and it's faded. He thought she'd thrown it away, but in truth, when it was no longer good to wear, she hid it in her closet, not willing to part with it.

"I practically lived in this hoodie after it happened until you got home. It made me feel safe." She explains quietly, climbing into bed.

Henry smiles sadly from his place on the chaise lounge. He doesn't make a move to climb into bed with her. It's as if he's hyperaware of all of his movements. He's worried he will somehow scare her or, worse, accidentally hurt her.

She looks over at him, her head propped up on her pillow. She's surprised to see him sitting there unmoving.

"Henry?"

"Have I ever done anything to make you uncomfortable?" He asks the question without a thought.

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, "What? No." She says quietly.

"I mean, have I ever come on too strong or pushed you too far or—"

"Henry, you have never made me feel anything other than loved," she states softly, "You have loved me in all of my favorite ways,"

"But—"

"Henry, please get in bed. You are my best friend, and I've never once felt unsafe with you. Please come to bed." She hates that he's hesitating. She was always afraid of this. She never wanted it to come between them.

"Elizabeth, I don't know what the right thing is," He admits quietly.

She sighs, "Come hold me," she whispers. She watches as his body language changes. The tension that was there disappears as he stands and moves towards the bed. She watches as he undoes his bowtie and strips out of his tuxedo. He puts on a t-shirt to accompany his boxers and slides into the bed next to her.

He's lying on his side, staring at her. She can see the tears welling in his eyes. She can tell he's struggling. She's struggling. That's marriage; what happens to her happens to him, too. She snuggles into him, her face buried in his neck, her arm wrapping around his midsection.

"I love you, Henry McCord," she whispers, her lips moving against his neck, "Nothing will ever change that,"

"I love you, too, babe," He says, his hand moving through her hair. He presses his lips against the top of her head.

She closes her eyes, willing to let sleep take her. She needs to rest. She hopes tomorrow will be a better day.