Only Between Us (18 page)

Bile rises into my throat and I swallow hard. “Yes, though I haven’t known him long.”

“But it is an intimate relationship,” he says softly.

I glare at Jude, and he gives me an apologetic look. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Yes,” I say to Dr. Greer, sitting up a little straighter. “It was.” There’s a pang in my chest as I use the past tense. But I shouldn’t be sad. I should be relieved, right? That I discovered the truth before he turned on me?

Do you really believe he would have?

I blink as my doubts find their voice. “So what happens now?”

“We won’t be in the painting class anymore, obviously,” says Jude.

Dr. Greer tilts his head. “You’re in different positions here. Jude, you’re Catherine’s therapist, so you have responsibilities with regard to your relationship with her. You want to avoid any overlap between your personal life and your professional duties to her. So I agree that it makes sense for you to stop going to that class, since her brother is teaching it.”

“But Romy—”

“Romy isn’t Catherine’s therapist.”

I meet Dr. Greer’s steady gaze. “But I’ve been involved in those supervisions.”

“Her case cannot be discussed in those group supervisions any longer,” he replies. “Jude and I will do individual supervision.” He leans toward me. “What you have to decide is how to take care of yourself.”

I wrap my arms over my middle. Jude scoots his chair closer, once again wanting to protect me. I put my hand on his shoulder to keep him at bay. “What do you want me to do?”

Dr. Greer’s eyes linger on my hand, holding my best friend at a distance. “Jude, would you mind if I talked to Romy alone for a few minutes?”

Jude looks surprised, but then he nods. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

Dr. Greer murmurs his thanks. When Jude has disappeared into the hall, he says, “After what you experienced last year, I’m concerned about the effect this will have on you, Romy. Can I ask how Caleb treated you?”

I close my eyes as a flood of sensation washes over me. Him inside me, me holding him down.
I want you to be in control of this
, he whispered to me. “Well,” I say. Better than well.

“Well? He’s been described as controlling. As having a temper.”

“I’ve never seen that …” I trail off. I
have
seen it. “I-I mean, he was really angry and upset the other night, but he calmed down quickly.”

“He hasn’t frightened you? Tried to coerce you?”

The only thing that’s frightened me is how much I feel for him.
“No. He’s been the opposite of all of that.”

His brow furrows. “I’m afraid that without all the information, I can’t give you proper guidance on this. It’s one of those tangled situations where simple ethics rules are hard to apply, so we have to do our best to cover all the bases. Clearly, you cannot be privy to any of Catherine’s case details from this point forward. You and Jude may not discuss her case privately, either, and I’ll have to trust you both on that. And if you speak with Mr. McCallum again, you should not share any of what you know about Catherine’s treatment with him. Maintain those boundaries and leave that to Jude, though professional channels.”

“I understand.”

“I will be reaching out to Mr. McCallum to offer him free therapeutic services as well. Regardless of what he’s done to his sister, we have some responsibility for his well-being, or at least to ensure that we’ve done no harm.”

I grimace as I think of Caleb’s expression as he handed Jude his sister’s insurance card. He was miserable and scared for Katie. He rattled off her prescriptions like he knew them by heart. He told her that he would bring her clothes if she got admitted. Then he let us take her and didn’t even try to stop us. Was that all an act to cover up his controlling abusiveness?

If so, he deserves a freaking Oscar.

“I’d like you to re-enter therapy as well,” Dr. Greer continues. “This can only have been triggering for you, and I’m sure you want to move on in a healthy way. I can’t tell you to suspend your participation in his classes, but I strongly recommend you do exactly that.”

My eyes are stinging. I take a sip of my coffee and pretend to be fascinated by the surface of the table. “I’ll call my therapist tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t lie, Romy. I’ve been disturbed by what I’ve heard about his behavior. Again, I don’t know everything, but you need to be careful.”

“I will,” I whisper.

He pats my arm. “Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow in supervision, then.”

Jude parks in front of my apartment complex and sags in his seat. The crescent moon hangs like a sickle over the building. “What a night.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”

He stares through the windshield. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this stuff, Romy.”

“What?”

“I was so scared tonight. I mean, you handled it like a champ, but I was a mess. If you hadn’t been there—”

“If I hadn’t been there, you would have managed.”

“I thought Caleb was going to hit me.”

I turn to him. “Why?”

“He looked pretty mad.”

“He
was
mad, Jude.” His handsome face was creased with frustration. I could see the helpless rage burning in his eyes. “But he didn’t make any threatening moves toward you. Or her. Being angry isn’t the same thing as being dangerous.”

“Are you defending him?” Jude snaps.

I unfasten my seatbelt. “I don’t know. I’m just stating facts, I think.”

He sighs. “You can really pick ‘em, girl. I’ll give you that.”

A chill passes through me. “What did you say?”

“Just stating facts, I think,” he says with a chuckle, then rubs his hand over his face. “Never mind. I’m so tired.” He turns his head. “I love you. You know that. And I can stay if you want, but—”

“I don’t need you to stay. I’m fine.” I can tell he thinks I don’t know what’s good for me, and it fills me with shame and pisses me off. But he’s had a shitty night and I’m not going to make it worse for either of us by ending it with a fight.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Call if you need something?”

 “Sure. Thanks.”

I get out of the car and watch him drive away, my muscles quivering with tension. My best friend thinks I’m messed up, that I have terrible taste in guys, that I’m an accident waiting to happen. My supervisor thinks I’m a traumatized victim, in need of therapy.

And … no one knows both sides of the story.

It hits me square in the chest. Everything any of us believe about Caleb is based on what Catherine has told Jude. Except … none of it jibes with my experience of Caleb himself. I’ve seen him in anguish. I’ve seen him sad. I’ve felt his tenderness and I’ve been as close to him as a person can be. I trusted him last night, and he didn’t do anything to violate that.

I owe it to him to get the full story.

My feet are in motion before I complete the thought. I march down the street toward the Academy Hills complex, pulling my jacket tight around me. I need to hear what Caleb has to say, and then I’ll decide what to do.

I tromp up the stairs of the C building and stride down the hall. I reach 224 and knock.

Nothing.

I knock again.

The door swings open. It wasn’t locked or latched properly. My palms sweating with unease, I poke my head in. Caleb is sprawled on his couch, a half empty bottle of vodka on the floor next to his dangling fingers. Oddly, an overturned can of WD-40 is lying next to it. Fear streaks through me. He wouldn’t have tried to poison himself, would he?

I rush forward, kicking the door shut and moving quickly to Caleb’s side. I brush his hair away from his face, and he moans. “Caleb, I need you to talk to me.”

His muscles tense at the sound of my voice. I say his name a few times, and one bloodshot eye cracks open. “Are you really here?”

Relief makes me sag all the way to the floor. “I’m here. What have you done to yourself?” I hold up the can of WD-40. “You didn’t drink any of this, did you?”

He snorts, and then groans and squeezes his eyes shut again. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

I glance at the vodka. “I don’t know what to think.”

“How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open.”

He’s still for a moment, then raises his head and squints toward the door. “I wanted Katie to be able to get in if she needed to.” The sadness in his voice is overwhelming.

I know I’m not supposed to give him information about Katie, but looking at him now, so worried for her … I can’t help it. Surely he deserves to know
something
? “She was admitted to the hospital for observation and stabilization. But physically she’s okay. She did need a few stitches, but really, all things considered, she’s in decent shape.”

He lays his forehead on the edge of the couch. “Thank you.”

I stand up and go to his kitchen. There’s a huge black spot on the ceiling above the stove, like someone’s cooking experiment went seriously wrong. I open a few cabinets, noticing plastic plates and cups, nothing made of glass, nothing ceramic. One cabinet has a lock on it. I fill a cup and take it back to the couch. I touch his back. “Do you want some water?”

With some effort, he turns over, and I sigh as I gaze at his face.
So perfect it almost hurts.
My fingertips touch the bruise on his cheek. “She did that, didn’t she?”

He gives me a cautious look as he takes the water from me. “She was pretty upset.”

I kneel next to him. “You don’t have to tell me tonight, but I came here because I wanted to hear what you have to say.”

He takes a sip of water. “You didn’t seem too interested earlier,” he says, slurring a little. He finishes off the water and I take the cup from him. His eyes are on mine, and in them I see both challenge and fear.

“There was a lot going on, and Katie needed help.”

His expression crumples. “I know. I—thank you. For taking care of her. I was glad you were there.”

“But I’m here now, because you need … something. I’ll let you tell me what.” I lay my palm of the side of his face, an aching tenderness stirring inside me. I know I should be more cautious, but being this close to Caleb makes that impossible for me.

“I want to tell you,” he says, leaning into my touch. He covers my hand with his. “I just need you to listen. After that you can decide if you never want to speak to me again, and I won’t hold it against you.”

“Then I’m listening.”

Clumsily, he pushes himself over to make room for me on the couch, and I curl up at one end. “The WD-40 is for her bedsprings,” he says. “So they don’t creak.”

I frown and look down at the discarded can. “Okay.”

“I can’t stand that sound.”

“The sound of bedsprings.” I draw my knees to my chest.

“It used to wake me up.” He closes his eyes and presses his palms against them for a moment. “Almost every fucking night.”

I rack my brain, trying to think of what to say, what to ask. I don’t want to mess this up, but he’s also drunk and it’s possible he’s talking nonsense. “Your own bedsprings?”

He shakes his head and then grimaces. “No. Hers. Her bedroom was next to mine, like it is now.”

My stomach is tight. “Her bedsprings were creaking.”

He opens his eyes. I’ve never seen anyone look more haunted. “Because he was in there. He was in there with her. When my mom was at work. She worked late.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

“Phil. My stepdad.”

Oh, God. “He was in her bed?”

“He was on top of her,” he whispers, and suddenly he sounds like a little boy. “I-I peeked in once. I … he …”

I’m caught between two reactions, withdrawing in horror or reaching for him. I end up scooting a little closer, scared to upset him. “He was molesting her. Your stepfather was molesting Catherine.”

“Katie,” he corrects. “I mean, her name’s Catherine, but we’ve never called her that.”

“Katie.”

He nods. “I don’t know when I first figured it out. But every night, I’d go into the hall, and I’d listen. I didn’t know what to do.”

An image comes to me. A boy. Standing in front of a door. It was him. Caleb painted himself, outside Katie’s room.

Listening to his stepfather rape his sister.

I put the back of my hand over my mouth.

“One night I stayed out there too long, and he came out,” Caleb says. “He found me standing there.” The shudder goes through his whole body. “He told me not to tell.”

I touch Caleb’s leg. His eyes meet mine. “Did he hurt you?”

I can see it on his face. That’s
exactly
what happened. “He told me he’d kill me and Katie if I said a word,” Caleb whispers. He bows his head onto his knees. “I fell for it. I was too scared.”

I get up, unable to take the distance. I move to Caleb’s end of the couch, and I start to sit on the floor, but he moves and gives me room next to him. “How old were you?” I ask as I settle in.

“I think I was twelve.” His hands clench into fists. “I was twelve,” he repeats, his voice shaking with pain.

“Of course you were scared. You were so young.” I put my hand on his arm.

“I was old enough. Old enough to tell. Every day he whispered it, that he would kill me, that he would kill her. And I was too stupid to do anything but believe him. I was a fucking pussy. I let it happen. I let it happen.” His shoulders tremble.

 “I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” I say, echoing what he said to me last night.

“Two fucking years. That’s how long it took me to work up the courage to tell someone.”

I bow my head. Poor Catherine. “But you told.”

“Yeah. It was such a relief at first. I thought everything would be okay, that I had saved her. It lasted for maybe a few minutes? And then it all came apart,” he says with a shuddering sigh. “They pulled Katie and me. Put us in foster care. And the police got involved. Phil was charged.”

“You stopped him. You made it stop.”

“You don’t understand.”

I raise my head.

“Katie denied it. She said it never happened.
Insisted
it never happened. Said she was fine, that she just wanted to go home and be with Mom.” His hair falls over his eyes. “And my mom said I was lying. She said I made it up because I didn’t like Phil. The police ended up dropping the charges, but the child welfare people wouldn’t let Katie go home unless Phil wasn’t there. My mom chose him over us.” He’s quiet for a moment, his mouth opening and closing around words too painful to say. But finally: “And they all blamed me for tearing us apart.”