Betrayed

bath tonight.”

In spite of her situation, her pain, her recent abuses and sorrows, Brook felt a giggle bubble to the surface. Lance raised and lowered his eyebrows melodramatically, and grinned at her, his teeth even and white against his dark beard.

He has a nice smile, she thought. Actually, a very nice smile now that I can see it.

Lance carried one pot into the bathroom and dumped it, brought it back, refilled it, and set it on the stove. He did the same with the other one. Then he grew serious. Looking over at Brook from the stove, he frowned slightly.

“We have some talking to do, now that you’re not so groggy. I thought maybe after your bath, we could visit while we’re having supper. How’s that sound?”

Brook’s heart began thumping in her chest and panic rose in her throat. Her face looked so stricken; Lance did a double-take.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, his eyes full of concern.

“What are we going to talk about?” She looked positively alarmed.

“Nothing bad,” he assured her. “I just thought you might like to know where you are, and what the routine is around here. Maybe a little more about me, so you won’t be so scared all the time. Just things like that.”

Her heart rate slowed in increments. “Okay,” she said. She wasn’t even sure herself what had caused her overreaction. Part of it was surely the shame she would endure if forced to recount her captivity. But, that wasn't all. For some reason she had developed a fear of the future, she couldn’t stop being afraid of the next thing. Something in her warned the next thing, whatever it might be, could be very bad. Somehow she would have to deal with this odd phenomenon; a result, she was sure, of her captivity and maltreatment. She still couldn’t bring herself to even think the word rape.

 Lance carried various items to the bathroom, kept refilling the pots, and took some meat from cold storage.

“I thought we’d have steaks tonight,” he said conversationally. He didn’t mention they would be goat steaks, remembering her reaction to the news about Belinda.

Although Brook had retreated into herself again and gave only mumbled responses, he continued to talk to her as if their conversation were not one-sided.

“I’ll stick some potatoes in the fire and I’m guessing they’ll be done about the time you’re finished with your bath. I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten fire-roasted potatoes, but there’s nothing quite like them. I wish we could have a regular tossed salad, but I don’t have any lettuce. What I can do, though, is make a fruit salad. I can slice some apples and pears and open a can of mandarin oranges. You probably don’t know this, Brooklyn, but you are the first dinner guest I have ever entertained at this table.”

Gradually, she warmed to him again, and began engaging actively in the dialogue. They talked of nothing important; foods they liked or disliked, and memorable meals, and odd cuisine. Soon, the bathtub had enough warm water in it for a reasonably deep bath, and Lance carried her in. She allowed herself to relax, just a little, in his arms this time. The scent of his aftershave was pleasing to her senses. It was different from the expensive brands Clark used, but it was nice. Subtle, masculine, and clean.

“I put a little Epsom salts in the water to help soak out some of the soreness,” he told her as he stood her carefully on her aching feet.

She noticed he had thoughtfully lain out clean clothes for her, put shampoo and soap where it could be easily reached, and turned up the lanterns. Their flickering flames painted the modest room with a warm yellow glow. He had also put out a tube of ointment and a couple of clean washcloths.

“Thank you,” she said as he turned to go. He nodded and started to close the door behind him when she stopped him. “Do you happen to have a razor? I mean, if you don’t use an electric one, that is.”

Lance smiled, amused. “I did bring an electric razor up here with me, but I couldn’t find anywhere to plug it in.”

Brook blushed. “Oh, jeez! How stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Lance grinned. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about plugging in the radio to save the batteries. You have nothing to feel silly about. Hold on, I’ll get you a one.” He took a disposable razor from the shelf behind her, placed it beside the shampoo, and quickly left the room.

Brook used the toilet and removed her clothes, wincing as she did so. She stood on painful feet and, using baby steps, paused in front of the sink. Looking at her reflection in the mirrored cabinet, she evaluated her facial injuries. Her bruises were starting to fade, turning that lovely shade of greenish-yellow; and the swelling was going down. Her injured eye looked much improved, and her lip was healing. She thought she could detect a glimmer her old self under the battered image. There was no full length mirror in the room. Probably a good thing. Brook wasn’t sure she was ready to look at her body yet.

She pulled off her bandages and dropped them in the trash where they landed on top of Lance’s locks of shorn hair. Looking down at the blood-spotted gauze, she felt sadness threaten again like a storm cloud in her mind. The slight steam wafting in the room distracted her from her negative thoughts as the luxury of a bath beckoned. Hobbling over to the tub, she climbed in and sank into heavenly warmth. Her scrapes, cuts and bruises stung a little at first. She gasped aloud, but soon acclimated to the water.

Brook soaked, basking in the buoyant warmth. This particular bath might be the most luxurious-feeling, and most appreciated, bath she would ever take, even if she lived to be a hundred and twenty years old. Until now, she had not even known how blissful a bath could be. Oh, she might have thought she knew, but she didn’t. Not really.

In fact, a lot of things that were trivial to the old Brook were precious beyond value to the new one. And conversely, she suspected she might soon discover that a lot of what used to be important to her didn’t matter much anymore. This outcome wouldn’t surprise her in the least.

The water was becoming cool, and she decided to get on with bathing. She began with her hair, scrubbing gently around the bumps. She dipped into the water and rinsed, vowing to rinse again in the sink.

Picking up the washcloth, she started with her face, washed her neck and upper torso. She lifted one leg at a time, carefully, as pain made her aware of the rigors of the last few days, and washed. Finishing this, she picked up the razor and shaved her underarms. Next, she shaved her legs, moving cautiously around any cuts and scrapes she encountered, amazed by their large number. She was horrified by the ugly purple bruises covering so much of her body.

All of these aches and hurts, she decided, are badges of courage, not marks of dishonor. They are battle wounds, tokens of her survival. She determined she would not allow her captors another victory over her by succumbing to an undeserved shame. Even as she grappled with the concept on a purely cognitive level, her pep talk unfortunately did not reach into her subconscious. There, her spirit still dwelt in darkness, and she knew it. But, it was a start. It was a step forward on the road to healing her emotional wounds. She was smart enough to know it wouldn’t be easy, that the way would be obscured by unreasonable and unpredictable obstacles. She couldn’t begin to foresee them all; she was traveling without a map. But, she consoled herself the best she could and hugged her arms around her shoulders there in the water.

One thing she knew for certain, she would never be the same again. However she came out on the other side of this, she would be a new person. Maybe a better one, but maybe not.

Clark came to mind and the thought of her husband made her apprehensive for some reason. Some men couldn't handle it when their lovers, wives, or girlfriends were abused. They turned away, lost their feelings, or even blamed the woman. But Clark wasn’t like those men. Clark wouldn’t turn away from her over an act she had no power to prevent. At least she hoped he wouldn’t.

The water was now dirty and becoming quite cool. Even though she hadn’t washed to her satisfaction, Brook stood and sat on the edge of the tub. Swinging her legs out, she gradually put pressure on her feet and dried, careful of her many wounds. The towels weren’t soft like the ones at home as they had been line dried; no clothes dryer in this neck of the woods.

Pouring warm water from a pitcher into a basin, Brook dipped her washcloth, and began cleaning her private areas more completely. Pain raged through her and she cried out involuntarily.

Lance called from the other room, “Is everything okay? Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” Brook lied, around the pain. “I just hit a tender spot.” Boy did I ever. And, I’m not