Blackout

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

When I wake the next morning, there is a note addressed to me on my dresser. It reads:

Iris,

I know yesterday was a little stressful for you. I’m sorry I got home late. There was an incident at the hospital. But I’ll be home around three and we can talk about it if you want. You did really well though, and I’m proud of you.

Rita

P.S. You have an appointment at 8 am on Friday with Dr. Dillinger. Marc will take you. Have a good day!

I smile a little at how Rita’s personality comes through so strongly in such few words. She really does have a heart of gold. Her son, too. And then I’m remembering yesterday, and how I ran in my room, and I’m instantly embarrassed. I wonder if he’s even here this morning, or if I have already run him away.

My question is answered by a knock on the door followed by a quiet, “Iris? Can I come in?”

I get those weird butterfly sensations in the pit of my stomach like I always do when he speaks to me. Quickly but as quietly as possible, I try to straighten up my room a little, and then, after jumping in bed, I call for him to come in.

The door opens and there he stands, looking as handsome as ever in a white undershirt and blue basketball shorts. He’s so beautiful it would make my knees weak if I was standing up. Ugh, when am I going to get over this silly crush?

“Good morning,” he says, somewhat formally. Yep, he’s going to run.

“Hey,” I mutter, looking down at the comforter in shame. “Listen, about yesterday…”

“There’s nothing to explain, and definitely nothing to apologize for,” he cuts in quickly, moving towards the bed until he’s standing over me. He sits down next to me and places his hand on mine, looking me in my eyes. “Anyone as selfless as you would have reacted in the same way,” he continues, “and I wouldn’t have predicted anything else from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Iris, I wonder if you even know this about yourself,” Marc says, and he pulls my face up to meet his with his fingers. “You are possibly one of the most selfless people I have ever met. When you saw us on the news, you were only concerned about how this would affect my family, my mother and I. You never even asked about how they knew you were there; that would have been a reaction I was expecting, had I not known you a little. You don’t know how refreshing it is, being around you.”

The intensity of his gaze, the sincerity of his statement… They disarm me. I am at a loss for words. These praises coming from him are more mollifying than they would be if they had come from anyone else. I realize, right then and there, that I am really in danger of falling in love with this man. I need to take a step back; these emotions must be controlled. Because I cannot afford to fall in love with this man. He and I are on two different levels, and I will never be able to reach his. And I know that if he were to ever discover these feelings I have for him, the rejection would break me.

Anyway, his words have me feeling better instantly, and I look up through my eyelashes at him with a small smile. “Thanks,” I say, “I really needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” he replies. “So, there’s this awesome restaurant I think we should check out. I have a phone meeting at twelve, but until then I’m free. So, what do you say?”

I don’t know what expression my face is showing, but I imagine it’s something like disbelief. “Did you forget all about yesterday? There’s no way I’m going anywhere! Someone would probably just call the reporters and send a mob out to get me!”

Marc laughs loudly. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got an idea,” he smiles mischievously, and he stands up from my bed. As he’s leaving my room, he says, “Get dressed, I’ll be right back.” And before I have a chance to protest, he closes my door. Seconds later, I hear the front door slam.

What is up with this guy? Why is he so nice to me? I guess I can be a fun person to be around, but it still doesn’t explain why he’s been spending so much time with me these last two days. And why he hasn’t run for the hills, what with all that has happened. Rehabilitated or not, I was a serial killer. I can’t figure out for the life of me how he’s gotten around that to treat me like I’m just a normal person.

Maybe it’s because of his mother, I keep thinking to myself. But the way he acts around me, it seems genuine. It doesn’t look like he’s just hanging with me to help his mom out. And besides, even if that was the case, all he would have to do is keep an eye on me. But he’s been taking me places, actually getting to know me… And it seems like he really gives a crap about me. I want to believe it’s because he cares for me, but maybe he’s just a really nice guy. Maybe he pities me and my circumstances. Who knows?

Well, no use sitting here obsessing over the unknown. So I decide to just go with the flow, and I vow to try my hardest to not only get over this unrequited infatuation, but to not take anything too seriously when it comes to this beautiful, amazing man.

I dress in some sweatpants and a white tee shirt and slip on some old sneakers. I brush my teeth and, as I’m braiding my hair back, wishing for a big, floppy hat or maybe a mask, I hear the front door close. I finish my braid and hurry to the living room to greet Marc.

In his hand is an unremarkable brown paper gift bag, but his face is full of some joke I haven’t heard yet. I glance warily at the bag for a moment, and then I sigh. “What’s this?” I ask.

“I told you I had an idea,” he replies, and he thrusts the bag excitedly towards me. I take it and pull out the contents. In my hand is a curly blonde wig, a black baseball cap, and some sunglasses. Typical fugitive stuff.

“Clever,” I say seriously, but I cannot help bursting into a fit of giggles. “You really expect me to wear this?”

“I got myself some stuff too,” he laughs, and he grabs another bag from by the door. Inside this bag is a toupee-looking black hairpiece, a fake mustache, and a pair of eyeglasses with a fake nose attached. He dons his items and poses seductively. “Am I super hot, or what?” he says in a deep voice.

I double up with laughter and put my things on. “Super duper hot,” I reply, still snorting, “But I’m pretty sure I’m hotter.” I strike a similar overtly sexy pose, and then I fall out laughing again. And I don’t even bother looking into any mirrors before I leave the house on Marc’s arm.

The restaurant, a little new-age mom & pop called Bar Credo, is awesome, as promised. The waiter laughs at our obvious disguises, but he doesn’t ask any questions. He just hands us our menus and gives us his recommendations. I order the Pink Omelet with extra purple cheese, apparently a specialty at this place. Marc asks for the Yellow Pancake and Turquoise sausage, something I wasn’t willing to try. He feeds me some off of his fork anyway, and I find it’s actually really good.

I learn a little more about Marc as we sit at the table in the back of the restaurant. He tells me about his life growing up. His sister, Christina, was his best friend. Two years older than him, she was his protector and his confidant. They were seldom separated until Christina enlisted in the Army when she turned eighteen. It had been her dream, he told me, to serve her country. Everyone had expected her to go the college route and become a doctor or an attorney or some other prestigious profession, but she had surprised everyone with her decision to become a combat medic. She had been in for four years when she died. She had been deployed to Afghanistan as the medic attached to a unit of engineers who were to clear roads of IEDs so other units could pass through. Her convoy had hit an IED, and she and her platoon sergeant had gotten the worst of it. Apparently, even though one of her legs had been blown off, once she had been dragged out of the mangled Humvee, she was still trying to tie a tourniquet on her platoon sergeant’s thigh to stop his amputated leg from gushing blood. Her actions had saved his life, but, although someone had administered aid to her as well, she had died by the time reinforcements had arrived to transport the wounded back to the FOB.

Marc was very proud of his sister; I could tell by the passion I could hear in his voice. It was obvious that he was not over her death; he was just good at suppressing his emotions. As he told me more about her, he began taking out numerous pictures from his wallet for me to see. One was a picture of her in her Army uniform in front of a flag. I looked closely at this picture, for it was the most recent one he had of her. And I then discovered why Rita and her son were so nice to me.

She looked a lot like me. She had the same dark, curly hair as me, though her curls were a little looser than mine, and a little shorter. She had a long, narrow nose just like my nose, and her eyes were shaped similarly, but the color of hers was a dark brown like her brother’s. Her lips were full, her teeth perhaps a little straighter than mine, and her complexion was maybe two shades darker than my skin tone.

My heart ached a little, looking at this picture while Marc described her personality to me. And I understood everything; their kindness, their willingness to risk their lives to help me. They cared for me because I reminded them of the daughter and sister they had lost. It wasn’t because I was inordinately special, but because I looked like her. And the way he described her personality- her love of laughter, her optimism, her temper matched by her wit- I probably behaved similarly to her as well. It was then that I understood the intense staring from Marc those two days in the courtroom.

I didn’t know how to feel about this. I wasn’t offended or anything like that; I just wondered how long it would last before they realized that I was not Christina, and no amount of amiability or charity would make me turn into her. I felt an enormous amount of pity for them. They missed her so much that they were clinging to a serial killer just to feel like they had her back in their lives. I tried to see if I felt used, but all I could really feel was sorrow for their grief.

Well, the least I could do, now that I knew this, was to continue to be grateful for their help. Because regardless of the reasoning behind it, the kindness they had shown me was something that I would forever be thankful for.

Once Marc had put his photos back in his wallet, he asked me more about my family. What I remembered about my mother, where I thought my father was by now, how my brother and grandmother died. All deeply personal questions that I had absolutely no problem answering for him; he had a way of easily persuading me to tell him my deepest darkest secrets, and I did this now. I told him that my baby brother, Carter, had died of SIDS shortly after he was born, and little while later, when I was six, my mother had met some guy and ran off with him, leaving me on my grandmother’s doorstep with instructions to give her a letter she’d left in my pocket. My grandmother had come home from church to find me shivering on the steps in front of her door with the paper clutched in my fist. She had brought me inside and fixed me a hot bowl of soup before going through her little address book and calling every acquaintance of my mother she could contact trying to find her. After three hours of this, she had tucked me into bed and promised me my mother would return soon.

I had never known until my grandmother died what the letter had said. In her will, she left me the only thing she had worth anything: a jewelry box with some family heirlooms in it. Under the mostly worthless trinkets, there was an old, folded-up piece of paper. The letter read:

Mama,

Carter died because I’m a bad mother. I don’t need to have kids. If it wasn’t for me, my baby would be alive.

I’m leaving Iris with you because I don’t want her to end up like Carter did. She’s a special little girl and she deserves nothing but the best. She’s smart and beautiful, and she’s gonna be somebody some day. I want that for her. And I know you can give that to her.

I’m leaving, mama, and I’m not coming back. Ever. I can’t be here. The pain of losing my baby boy is too much. So I’m going with Richard back to where he lives. I won’t tell you where because I know you’ll try to come get me and bring me home.

Tell my baby girl that I loved her more than anything on this earth, and that I’m sorry I left her. Tell her that I was only trying to do what was best for her. Tell her that I’m messed up, and that I know you’ll give her the life she needs. Tell her that one day, she’ll understand why I am doing this, and that I hope she’ll forgive me.

Take Ronald’s b***h ass to court and squeeze every dime you can outta his deadbeat ass. Make sure my baby’s taken care of, mama. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this but you.

I love you. And tell Iris that I will always love her. Don’t look for me.

Lari

I told him about the day I found out my grandmother had died of a heart attack, and how I felt horrible about it, as if it was my fault. I told him about my father and his indifference towards me. I even told him about the first blackout with my father. By the time I was done talking, both our plates had been empty for a while, and the restaurant was crowded for lunch.

I’m looking around, surprised by all the new people around me, wondering how the time had passed by so fast, when the waiter returns with the check. Marc leaves some money on the table and we exit the restaurant, still wearing our ridiculous costumes.

When we get in the car, Marc doesn’t turn it on. I’m looking at him, confused, as he stares out of the window, seemingly lost in thought. Then he turns to me and says, “I’m gonna call and cancel that meeting I have, and reschedule it for tomorrow.”

“Why?” I ask, surprised. This would be the second day in a row that he’s missed out on work because of me, and I immediately feel bad.

“My mom told me you needed some new clothes. I was thinking maybe we could do a little shopping.”

Even more surprised, I say, “No, Marc, I’m not going to let you do that. I have enough clothes to get by with until I can get a job.”

He scoffs at me and says, “Iris, I know you don’t like things being done for you, but you’re just going to have to accept it.” He smiles tauntingly. “If you don’t go with me, I’ll just take my mom and buy you some clothes anyway. She knows your sizes; she’s been your nurse for five years.”

Ugh. Why? I can never repay him for the kindness he has shown me already. How will I ever be able to repay him for this?

“Marc, I really appreciate this, but why? Why are you doing all of this for me?” I pull the wig and glasses off and look him directly in the eye. “I can never pay you back for all of this. The fair, the food, the costume, your time. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it all. But why? You don’t owe me anything.”

Marc removes his wig, glasses, and mustache, and he moves closer towards me, as close as he can get in the confines of the car. I’m almost afraid (and elated) that he’s going to try to kiss me, but he stops short, looking at me with an intense expression on his face. “Iris,” he says slowly, “I want to do this for you. All the things I’ve done and plan on doing, I want to do. I enjoy seeing the happiness on your face after all you’ve been through. It’s nice being able to do it; and it’s good therapy…. For both of us.”

I can tell that I’m not going to be able to talk him out of this, so I groan and cross my arms, pouting, as he starts the engine and starts driving toward the city.

After the long day of shopping with Marc, my feet are a little sore, so once we get back to the house in the evening, I take my shoes off and massage them a little with some lotion. Rita is in the kitchen, cooking some kind of ethnic meal, and Marc is showing her some of the clothes he bought for me.

The way they interact is so sweet, and it’s something I’ve never seen before. I haven’t experienced a loving bond like the one they share, so it’s entirely new to me. I soak all of it up, learning even more about the both of them as I listen to their playful banter.

Rita asks me if I’ve been having fun spending time with Marc, and then apologizes for not being around for the last two days. She then informs me that Clarisa was released the day before I was.

“Released?” I say, shocked. “Released, as in, left Tampa Palms?”

“Yeah, I was surprised, too,” says Rita with a smile.

“But how? She- well, I mean, I never thought- she was so content there; she wanted to stay there…”

“It confused us all. But, according to Dr. Dillinger, she was finally ready to enter the world. I guess you must have inspired her that it was time to be an adult and start living her life.”

“Psh,” I scoff, “I doubt it. Well, Clarisa was great once upon a time, but I’m kinda glad we lost touch. I wouldn’t like to think about her stalking me.” I giggle, but I am completely serious; I can imagine her following me around, trying to force me to allow her into my new life, to be her only friend again. Clarisa was far too dramatic for that to be acceptable, so I could only be thankful for the not-so-gradual separation between the two of us that began after her suicide attempt.

Rita tsks, wagging her large, wooden spoon at me, and then focuses back on stirring whatever is in the pot at the stove.

Once dinner is served, Rita, Marc and I sit at the table together and Rita begins asking me about yesterday and the fair. I tell her how much fun we had up until we got off of the Ferris wheel. She begins apologizing for that happening, but I cut her off quickly.

“Don’t apologize to me. You deserve the apology,” I say. “I don’t want to bring any harassment on you guys from the media or anyone else. If it comes to that, though, I’ll leave.”

“Look,” Marc says before Rita can get a word out. “My mom and I, we knew the risks when she agreed to bring you here. My mom, and I for that matter, decided before you even came here that those were acceptable risks. What everyone is most concerned with is you continuing to recover, and having as normal a life as possible.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” agrees Rita quietly.

I decide that there’s no point arguing. It won’t make a difference, and I’m not good at arguing with Rita. And Marc would win any fight with me by just smiling that breathtaking smile. So I finish my food, and listen while the two of them try to convince me that everything will be okay.

Weeks, and eventually months, pass by, and I am getting more and more used to this freedom. There have been a couple incidents where my location is leaked when I’m out in public, but each time, the media attention is a little less intense. About three months after my release, Dr. Dillinger helps me get a job at her brother’s physical therapy clinic.

It’s nice, restful work. I am given the task of working with children who have had injuries that require rehabilitation. One of the kids, little Jordan Walker, is my favorite, and while I help with other children, she is my only patient. She was hit by a speeding car while riding her bike and her legs, pelvis, and back was broken. Her spinal cord was spared, but once her injuries were healed, she had to relearn how to walk.

She’s a spunky little thing, full of happiness and optimism, and she’s very intelligent to be eight years old. She has this view of the world that makes it seem a little brighter. And she’s very aware. The first time she met me, she already knew who I was, because she’d seen my name and picture in a newspaper. But she didn’t judge me or even tell her parents that I was her physical therapist. However, I knew people would have to know about who was treating their children. Dr. Dillinger’s brother, Casey Dillinger, agreed, and he decided that he’d allow me to tell Jordan’s parents myself to gauge their reactions. If they reacted badly, I’d be kept working with forms and files only. If they were okay with me working with her, I’d keep her as a patient.

The day I am to tell Jordan’s parents about me, Casey asks them if they can stay for a little while to discuss some important things. I wait in Casey’s office until Casey, Jordan, and Jordan’s parents walk into the room and have a seat. I see awareness cross Jordan’s father’s face, but her mother is completely oblivious to me sitting here.

“Iris?” says Casey, giving me the floor.

I stand from my chair and move to greet Jordan’s parents, who both turn towards me. “Hello,” I say, “My name is Iris Kilpatrick. I’m one of your daughter’s therapists.”

Mr. Walker shakes my hand, and says, “Ms. Kilpatrick, I thought I recognized you.” I don’t understand his tone, but it isn’t negative, so I breathe a small sigh of relief. Then, Mrs. Walker takes my hand into both of hers and says, “Our daughter has told us a lot about you, Iris. But I had no idea you were the Iris Kilpatrick.”

“Yes,” I say, “I am. I just wanted to introduce myself to you personally, so you would have the chance to decide if you mind me treating your daughter. I didn’t want there to be any miscommunication, as it’s your right to decide who you want around her.” Then I stand in silence, waiting nervously for their response.

The Walkers look at each other, communicating silently with their eyes. Then, Mrs. Walker looks back at me. “Iris, we are actually big supporters of yours.”

I pause for a moment. “Really?” I ask, and the relief is even stronger.

“We followed your case from the beginning,” says Mr. Walker, and he smiles at me. “We run a non-profit called Mental Illness Network for Tolerance, or MINT for short. The main focus of our organization is teaching tolerance and understanding towards those who are incarcerated and suffering from mental illness, and supporting them in entering back into society. We donated to your defense fund during your trial, too.”

I am surprised, and immensely glad, that Jordan is my patient. Because could I have found more sympathetic people anywhere else? What are the odds, that my patient’s parents were people who felt compassion for me and my situation?

“Wow,” I say, “That’s- wow, I’m speechless. Thank you!”

“How have you been doing these last few months? We saw you on the news a couple times, but not for anything bad, thank goodness. I know you’ve been keeping out of the public eye.”

“Trying to,” I reply. “But whoever leaks my whereabouts whenever I go anywhere is making that really hard.”

Everyone laughs, and I join in. “I try to wear disguises; a wig or a scarf over my face, or something, but they find me too much for it to just be a coincidence.”

“Well, it’s good to see you’re doing well, and it’s excellent that you’ve got such a good job. We figured it’d be impossible for you to find work, with the notoriety around you.”

“Yeah, Casey is related to my doctor. They helped me out a lot. And I really like it here, working with Jordan. She’s an amazing little girl.”

“Yes, we are blessed, aren’t we?” Mrs. Walker says, and she squeezes her husband’s hand, smiling adoringly in his eyes.

So I am allowed to keep Jordan as a patient, and I begin saving as much money as I can. My salary is excellent, and eventually, I save enough money to get a nice car. It seems like my life is finally coming together, and I’m getting the future I dreamed I would have. All that’s missing is my own husband and baby. But with how well things are going, I’m sure that’s in my near future, too.