Blackmailed by the Beast

Thorne stands at the doorway.

“What it is?”

He smiles at me. “It’s done,” he says.

Fear catches my heart. Is it already too late? “What’s done?”

“I fried Yama’s motherboard.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

He nods and I know he is not lying.

“Why?”

“Because you were right.”

I almost collapse with relief. I look into his eyes and my breath hitches. He opens his mouth to say something and a noise startles us.

It is my mobile phone still in my dressing gown pocket ringing. It takes me out of my almost trance-like state. I take it out and frown when I see my mother’s number. I look up at Thorne. “I have to take this. I won’t be long.”

He nods and I turn away from him and hit the accept button.

“Mama?”

“Chelsea,” she says, and I know. That one word is enough for me to know exactly why she is calling. The hairs on my neck stand, and my legs feel like they are about to buckle.

I don’t even have to ask, but I do. “What is it, Mama?”

“Chelsea, it’s your Nan. She passed away a few minutes ago.”

Time stops. I haven’t seen her in so long. I never thought I would care if she died, but I do. It hurts me deep inside, makes old scars hurt. Why? Nan’s … she was … It feels as if my brain is malfunctioning. I can’t think straight. I can’t fully process what is happening. I cannot think of a coherent thought. My mind is a jumble. Then my brain fills with vivid images. Nan bringing Nutella sandwiches for me to eat in bed. She cut them in squares. And a glass of milk. She always brought milk. It was a ritual. She knew I hated milk, but she brought it every night. Always she said the same. “Your Mama loved it.” I think of her standing in the garden pegging sheets on the washing line. I think of her biting her lip, saying, “Sorry.” I think. I think.

“Chelsea?” my mother says.

I know by her voice that she is about to cry. It’s a sound I know that I cannot hear. I walk over to the window and look outside. I stare at the beautiful garden and try to make sense of what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. Problem is I’m not thinking and I’m not seeing. I stare blankly outside, completely transfixed by the jumbled up memories of Nan. The tears almost come, I feel them in the back of my throat and my eyes, but they never flow.

“Can you come?” my mother whispers, her voice sounds hollow.

“Yes, I’ll come, Mama.”

“Thank you.” She hangs up.

“Chelsea?”

The voice sounds so distant. Everything seems so far away now. Nan is gone.

“Chelsea?” His voice is closer now, but I don’t turn around. I feel rooted in place.

Then I am being spun around so quick it makes me dizzy. I look up into Thorne’s handsome face. His eyebrows are a straight line and his eyes are fierce. My knees buckle and his arms wrap around me. He holds me tightly. I am too limp to hold him back. My body is shaking, but I’m not crying. The tears still haven’t come. I feel devastated, yet numb at the same time.

I’m not sure why. I didn’t love Nan.

Thorne doesn’t ask me what’s happened. I wouldn’t know what to say even if he does. He simply holds me in his arms and rubs my back and rocks me gently. That is all I need. He is all I need now to keep the bad memories away.

I hope he never lets go.

Chelsea

Thorne takes me to my mother’s apartment, but never once does he try to pry or intrude on my privacy when I tell him my grandmother has passed away. At first, I was nervous about him meeting my mother, but any concerns I have are dispelled immediately.

My mother seems distracted and lost. She is very polite to Thorne, but when I try to leave she asks me to spend the night with her. I know Thorne doesn’t want to leave me with her, but I can’t say no to my mother. Especially tonight, when I can see that she is not herself.

Thorne stays for dinner.

He arranges for food from one of the best restaurants to be sent to the apartment, but neither my mother nor I have any appetite. After dinner, Thorne leaves, but he posts a couple of his security men outside my mother’s door. It is very odd considering the area, but he insists they are there for my safety.

I stand at the balcony and watch him get into his car. He looks up and waves at me and I wave back. I know I love him, but my heart feels empty. When I go back in, my mother is lighting up probably her hundredth cigarette of the day.

“So you’re in love,” she says, blowing out smoke.

It’s impossible to fool her. I nod.

A tear rolls down Mama’s face.

I move to her side and crouch next to her. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” she says gruffly and stands.

I look up at her. I don’t know why my mother has such an aversion to being affectionate to me. She walks to the couch where I was sitting and lowers herself on it. I stand and take the chair she vacated. She wanted me to stay. She insisted, and yet, she has no use for me.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” she asks.

“All right.” I go into the kitchen and pour us two glasses of wine. We drink in silence. Then my mother pours us another glass each. I am not used to drinking much and I start to feel quite drunk. Being drunk with my mother is a strange experience. There is so much that I don’t know or remember about her.

“Did you know that Nan brought me a glass of milk every single night even though she knew I hated it, just because you loved it?”

Mama’s face twists. “I hate milk. I’ve always hated it.”

I stare at Mama in shock. I feel dizzy. “What?”

She raises her glass. “Here’s to your Nan. She has a strange sense of humor.”

I stand up. The room is spinning. “I’ve got to go to bed, Mama.”

“Yes, do that,” she says, and pours another glass.

The funeral is the next day at Nan’s local church. I didn’t know that Nan had so many friends. They come with their white hair and long black coats. They are somber.

Mama cries a lot. It’s painful to watch her trying to get through her eulogy. The service is small. My granddad is on the opposite side of the church by the font, but I specifically requested to sit in the back by the door. It is something I’m used to. Knowing that a means of escape is nearby always helps me in difficult moments like this.

Thorne is with me, and every so often he looks at me or holds my hand. I am glad he is here. The whole ceremony has a surreal air about it. This is the woman who raised me and put me through school when my mother was wasting away in a jail cell.

To say that I feel nothing is an insult to her memory, but it’s difficult to describe what I feel. I listen to my mother’s words. They don’t seem real. I can’t imagine Mama as a girl. I think of what she told me about the milk. Nothing seems to makes sense.

My mother has finally finished speaking.

Everyone stands to sing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” but I stay seated and so does Thorne. I’ve never been one to believe in the church. Too many things have happened in my life for me to feel that connected.

Granddad stands to speak. His voice is strong but grave. I don’t lift my head. I don’t hear the words he says. I remain quiet through the next few hymns and prayers. I do not have a eulogy. I couldn’t find the right words when nan was alive, and I still can’t find them now.

After a final prayer, the funeral is over.

Everyone shuffles out of the church, some are silent, others are quietly reminiscing about my grandmother.

The whole service seems like a blur. As if I am still drunk from the two glasses I drank with Mama last night.

Old women I remember vaguely from my childhood come up to hug me and offer their condolences. Being the center of attention at a time like this is the last thing I want. I’m so ready to just go home and sleep the rest of the day away. I try not to squirm.

“She was a wo

nderful soul.”

“We’ll miss her at Church. She was such a good person. So kind. So giving.”

“Remember that time, Molly, when she stayed up all night sewing little dresses for the Syrian children.”

I thank them, but my demeanor of too-devastated-to-really-be-a-part-of-this means I don’t have to add to the chorus of praise. What will I say? She gave me milk every night when she knew I hated it.

“We’re having a small service for your Nan. Are you coming?” my mother asks. There is a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and she is gripping the funeral program so hard her knuckles are white. I stare at her hands instead of into her eyes. I really don’t want to go, but throughout my life I’ve always done everything I could to please her and not upset her.

I guess I was always desperate for her love. And maybe I still am because I tell her yes.

My eyes turn to Thorne to request his understanding, and to ask him to come with me. He nods and puts his arm around my waist to let me know he is going to be there for me. I smile gratefully up at him. He smiles back and suddenly, I feel some semblance of security and safety. Simply because he is here with me. He will take care of me. No one can harm me while he is around.

“Where will it be?” Thorne asks. “I will follow behind with Chelsea in my car.”

“It’ll be at her grandparents’ home.” Mama turns to me. “I’m sure you remember where it is. Your granddad’s been asking for you, you know?” she replies.

I don’t move; I don’t even blink. The only movement I am capable of is squeezing Thorne’s hand.

“All right, we’ll see you in a bit,” Thorne says.

Thorne and I hardly speak on the drive there, aside for him asking me how I am. My response is monosyllabic.

“Fine.”

He knows me better than that. His jaw clenches.

As grateful as I am to have him here with me, I can’t bring myself to tell him anything. Maybe because there is just too much to tell. Or maybe it is because I can’t trust him. I don’t know what will happen when my time with him is up. I know this.

My numbness, I realize, has been a defense mechanism all day. Any break in the armor will devastate me, and I know that I’m not ready to feel anything, or even address the old memories.

My grandparents’ home looks just as I remember it. There are a few cars parked in front and on the street, but it is still exactly the same. It is a tan colored brickwork house with small drab windows on the ground floor and two windows on the second floor where the two bedrooms are. The front door is still the same bright red that I saw the very first day I came to live here.

The door is ajar. Thorne and I let ourselves in. There are many people from the funeral who have come. Some are gathered in the living room where a woman I’m sure I know is playing the piano and singing. A few people are standing around the piano and singing along. They are singing old Frank Sinatra songs. He was Nan’s favorite singer.

The smell of food cooking wafts in from the kitchen. There is a woman with an apron who is barking out orders to everyone else in the kitchen. When she sees me, she flashes me one of those I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss smiles. I look away quickly. I don’t want people to look at me in that way. I haven’t really suffered a great loss. I am just here to support my mother.

I breathe in deep to take in the smell of the house itself. Without the food. The familiar and faint scent of wood and old perfume that I remember distinctly, is impossible to smell downstairs since there is so much cooking going on in the kitchen.

I turn to Thorne. “I need to be alone a few minutes. Do you mind?”

He nods. “I’ll be here. Do what you need to do.”

“Will you be alright down here by yourself?” I ask. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable.

“I’m not by myself,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the living room where everyone is singing.

“I won’t be long,” I whisper, and walking down the corridor, ascend the stairs to my old bedroom.

Chelsea

I stand outside of my room. How strange. The door is closed and I am afraid to open it. My stomach flips with fear, like I’m expecting something to be waiting for me behind that door. Obviously, there is nothing there. Just too many bitter memories in this place.

Jesus! I am afraid of a room!

The thought makes me laugh, a strange, shrill sound. As suddenly as that bubble of laughter came it is gone.

I grasp the handle and push open the door.

It is as if I have stepped back in time. The room looks exactly the same as when I was last inside of it. All the dolls are still in their packages. I wonder how much they are worth now. No use to Nan where she is now. Maybe Granddad can sell them and realize their investment value before he joins Nan.

I look around curiously.

Nothing is covered in dust. My room has been kept intact and clean. It has been at least 7 years since I was here last. My bed in the corner still has the beautiful faded Cinderella bedspread over it. There are posters on the wall of bands and celebrities I used to admire. My desk is still near the window.

I close the door behind me, grateful for the silence.

I lean back against the wood and shut my eyes to fight away tears. This room is just as much a safe haven as it is a sepulcher. I remember myself as a little girl. A petrified little girl who was forced to eat her mushrooms and who vomited all over the carpets.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

There was a girl who lived in here once who never left. A tiny part of her flew away and became the woman I am. I mourn her more than I mourn my grandmother.

I step away from the door.

Don’t be silly, Chelsea. This is just a room. Yes, once I was a prisoner here, but no longer. I am a woman now. I took back my power a long time ago.

There is a rag doll on my desk that catches my eye. I made her myself and named her Amelia. I pick her up and press her against my face. I smile. I smile because she smells the same. There are no cooking smells, or rooms full of strangers to take the smell away from her.

I am by myself up here. Just me and Amelia.

For a moment, I am little Chelsea again. I’m playing with my doll’s hair and looking out into the back garden.

“Well, well.”

I turn around so fast I barely process the sight before me. My bedroom door is wide open. I was so involved in my memories I did not hear it opening.

Standing in the doorway is my grandfather. I hold my breath and stand very still. Every joint and muscle in my body becomes stiff.

He steps inside. The only movement that my body can do is to shake with fear. My eyes are wide now. Seeing him up close brings back all of the awful memories. I cannot move. I cannot speak. I feel even more like a child now than when I was by myself earlier.

He closes the door behind him and walks towards me. I stay perfectly still, as I watch him coming closer and closer to me.

My grandfather is right in front of me now. He brushes his fingers through my hair and smiles. He used to be so big. He is still about a foot taller than I am. It’s not much difference, but I’m still afraid. The old fear. It paralyzes me.

“What a beautiful woman you’ve become.” The way he whispers makes me feel sick to my stomach, but I’m still unable to move.

His hand moves from my hair to my face. Feeling his skin mortifies me. If only I can just find the will to move, to scream, to do anything other than accept what is happening to me.

“Just like old times, eh, Chelsea?”

I cannot hold it in any longer. The tears finally come. They cascade down my face, but I don’t sob or make a sound.

“Just like old times,” he says with a slow smile.

Thorne

There is a feeling of warmth and a sense of unity from the people in the living space celebrating Chelsea’s Nan’s life. Everyone has been very welcoming, but I can’t help feeling that something is off. There is something wrong. My ins

ides feel very cold.

I look around trying to pin-point the sense of foreboding and unease. From my position in the hallway I can see into the kitchen, up the stairs, or into the living room. I also have a clear view of the front door.

Earlier, I spotted Chelsea’s grandfather moving through the crowd. He had taken off his blazer and kept his head bent. Like Chelsea, he didn’t seem to express his emotions openly. When he passed me by, he barely paid me any mind. He grumbled a salutation and walked up the stairs.

For some reason, my eyes followed him. He got to the top of the stairs and paused before he opened a door. For a few seconds, he just stood in the doorway, then he turned around and looked behind him and down the stairs. I quickly averted my eyes. Weirdly, I felt like a voyeur for watching him. By the time I looked up again he had entered the room and closed the door.

Now my wandering gaze collides with Chelsea’s mother. She is sitting on a sofa flanked with two older women. Her first reaction is to look away, then she thinks better of it, and looks back at me, a polite smile on her face.

I don’t smile back. Why don’t I like this woman?

I drove Chelsea to her mother’s apartment convinced I would love her. A mother who is willing to sacrifice herself. To go to prison for protecting her daughter? What’s not to love? What I found was: the woman makes my fucking skin crawl. I didn’t have to spend more than a few minutes to know there is something so artificial about her it grates on my nerves.

When I don’t smile, her expression hardens. She looks away and stares at the people gathered around the piano. Yes, I definitely do not trust or like her. I have no answers why.

I lean against the wall near the stairs. The cold inside me intensifies. My skin prickles. I sense there is something very wrong about this house, this family. I know Chelsea went upstairs. I need to find her. I need to make sure she is all right.

I start up the stairs, taking two at a time. I have no proof for what I suspect, but I am suddenly certain that she is in the room her grandfather stepped into. I stand in front of the closed door. Something tells me not to knock. Unconsciously, holding my breath, I grasp the handle and push open the door.