Toby Neal: Blood Orchids

“I am who I am,” Lei said, in a small voice.

“Do you have any idea what it was like for me to ride in that ambulance with you, to see what he did to you, how close you came to being raped, even murdered? Disappear on me, fly to see your dad in prison… God knows what kind of characters he associates with.. Run around town with all these injuries…”

Lei looked at her hands. She felt herself detaching, flying away, her vision dimming to a pinprick. She grabbed her arm above the cast, digging her nails in, trying to stay present.

He’s not going to hurt me, she told herself. No matter how angry he is, he won’t hurt me.

Her vision expanded. She breathed, slow breaths in and out. He was still saying something.

“It’s because I care. I know you’ve got issues, and just getting through this situation has taken all you’ve got-let alone worrying about how I’m dealing with it. I know that. But… I can’t help it. I want you to remember me, too, and include me. I need you to, or this thing,” he said, gesturing between them, “isn’t going to last.”

“I’m just not used to having to include someone else.” Lei firmed her chin. “I don’t like you being mad at me, but sometimes I’m gonna do what I need to do-and I’m sure you’re going to be pissed off. But I’ll try to be more careful and keep you in the loop.”

“Okay, I said my piece.” He sighed, sat back. “Can’t help my caveman instincts, I want to kick the crap out of anyone who threatens my woman. Gotta remember she can do her own ass-kicking.” He raised his glass. “To you, Lei.”

Lei sipped uneasily, but he didn’t seem to be making fun of her. She reached across with her good hand to touch his. As usual the right words wouldn’t come.

“You know what?” His mouth turned up on one side, a rueful smile. “Can’t say I wasn’t warned.”

This time she was the one to take his hand.

“I’ll try to make it up to you.”

Stevens kissed her goodnight at the door when he dropped her off, insisting she go to bed early. She watched him drive away and remembered she’d forgotten the mail. She took the letters out, rifled through them-a few bills and the now-familiar plain white envelope with LEI TEXIERA on it.

“Impossible,” she said aloud, going up the dark stairs. “He’s dead.”

She ripped the envelope open. Her eyes scanning the street, she looked briefly down at the sheet of computer paper she’d unfolded.

This note was different.

She went up the porch and into the house, relocking and rearming the door. Keiki greeted her, whuffling and bumping with her head, but Lei ignored the dog. She flicked on the light, sat down at the little kitchen table and opened the folded paper.

Her own childhood face looked up at her-a photocopy of the school snapshot from third grade, the year she was nine. An aureole of curly hair framed an olive-skinned, lightly freckled face with tilted almond eyes and a too-wide smile. The note, all in caps, glared up at her from beneath.

YOU ARE DAMAGED GOODS AND ALWAYS WILL BE. SEE YOU SOON.

Lei barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. She clung to the toilet, heaving well past when anything was left, and then sat back, her head resting on the cool porcelain of the tub. She crawled over and locked the door, then curled up on the bath mat, clutching her abused ribs, rubbing her aching stomach, a keening in her throat echoed by Keiki’s whining outside the door.

Damaged Goods. That’s what he’d called her. D.G. for short. He had even called her that in front of her mother, telling Maylene it meant Dear Girl.

Memories roiled up, images that she had stuffed down past knowing. She’d remembered that first time, the struggle even though he’d doped her with cold medicine, and the pain of things never meant for someone so small. That blank space in her memory had kept her from knowing anything more until now. It all crashed back on her with the simple phrase he’d used as he used her.

She longed to escape to that other place, but this time it didn’t work. Like a broken film clip the memories ran. When she realized there was no way to stop him, she’d cooperated-and on some level she’d secretly liked the attention he gave her, the little presents, the protection from her mother… and when he left, she’d cried and missed him.

He’d said he loved her, and she believed it.

Damaged Goods. That was what she was. Shame and self-loathing swamped her and Lei retched some more, and went to bed.

Keiki barking, the deep bellow she reserved for intruders, penetrated the darkness of her dreams. She got out of bed and padded to the bathroom yelling, “Just a minute!”

Pale morning light did bad things to her complexion in the mirror and she couldn’t meet her own eyes as she splashed water on her face and rinsed out her mouth. She went to the front door, put her eye to the peephole.

Michael Stevens stood there. He was holding a bouquet of flowers.

She turned and ran back to the bathroom, stomach heaving as she fell to her knees. Keiki ran back and forth, confused and whimpering.

“Lei! What’s wrong?” She heard Stevens pounding on the door. She raised her head, yelled.

“Go away! I’m sick!”

The pounding stopped. She rested her head on the tub again, tears welling as she thought about Stevens, about the feelings she’d had before she knew what she really was.

Damaged Goods. That’s my name. My destiny.

“Lei? You sure you’re okay? Can I come in, help you or something?”

“No! Seriously, I’m just really sick. Please go away.”

Keiki was staring at the front door, her ears cocked in anticipation. She gave a little greeting bark, recognizing his voice. First time she’s ever done that, Lei thought, and it’ll be the last.

She heard his footsteps walk back and forth on the porch, and then her cell rang, buzzing on the side table where she’d dropped it.

“Lei pick up!” he called. “Let me talk to you.”

“No. Goddamn it, just go away, and let me be sick in peace!”

This heart-cry took the last of her strength, and she slammed the bathroom door and curled up on the mat, sobbing into a towel until no more tears came. It was just all too damn much.

She eventually got up, brushed her teeth, opened the bathroom door. The silence told her Stevens was gone. She knelt, gave Keiki a chest rub. She fed the dog and looked at the table. The unfolded paper seemed alive, a burning, pulsing wound. She put it in a Ziploc bag and stuck it in the freezer. She opened the front door to make sure Stevens was gone. The bouquet of flowers lay wilting on the welcome mat. She slammed the door, armed the house, and went to bed with a handful of Vicodin.

They’d been so sure Jeremy was the stalker! They’d found pictures of her on his phone-and her house at all hours of the day and night, as he tracked her routine. How he’d known about the bath thing she’d still wondered, and now she knew.

He wasn’t the only guy stalking her.

Pono finally got her to open the door a day later. He held up the browning flowers.

“These yours?”

She snatched them out of his hand.

“You look like shit,” he said, following her into the kitchen.

“Thanks. I feel like shit.”

“So what’s up? Flu? Food poisoning?”

She stuffed the flowers into the overflowing trash can.

“I can’t see Stevens anymore.”

“That’s some flu you got.” Pono sat down, rubbed his lips thoughtfully with his finger. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“Only if you swear not to tell Stevens and you promise to keep this confidential. It’s my case and I don’t want him on it anymore.”