Confidential(62)

I need those records. I can feel that they’ll show a woman who’s lost control before. They’ll show me who she really is.

And I know where that file is. I know anything in it is inadmissible, and I can never tell anyone if I take a peek, but it could point me in the right direction of something I can use. Even if she doesn’t crack, I can take her down. We’re talking about justice here.





BEFORE





CHAPTER 49





FLORA


I was learning how long it took for a bruise to fade. I didn’t want to burn through all my PTO waiting, so I was back at work, having also learned the inadequacy of makeup. As I was out on calls in various doctors’ offices, I found that the men—particularly the self-involved doctors who ought to know better—immediately accepted my explanation that I took a tumble down my stairs. I embellished it with a dingbat smile: “Klutzy me!” I stuck out my chest. Worked every time.

But once I was back in the office, Jeanie wasn’t buying it. She pulled me aside, into a conference room. “You can’t fool me,” she said. “I know the signs. And you know I know all the signs.”

Somehow, though, I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten about the man she was with before she found her sweet, kind, milquetoast husband. I’d forgotten about the man who almost killed her. I hadn’t known her then, but we used to be close enough that she told me anyway.

“You’re projecting,” I said. Projecting. A Michael word. It meant that people see in others what they are themselves, or what they hope to be, or what they hope to avoid. Jeanie was seeing the life she never wanted to return to. She was trying to save me.

She shook her head. “I’m seeing what you can’t. I should have left him a whole lot sooner than I did, but I was telling myself all kinds of bullshit. That I shouldn’t have made him mad. That it was somehow my fault. If I just did everything better, if I could only be what he needed, then he’d stop.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, but that doesn’t mean—”

“You didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Her eyes were penetrating, but I couldn’t squirm. It would make me look like a liar. “Yes, I did.”

“Who is he, really? This guy you’re involved with.”

“I told you and Nat all about him.”

“No, you didn’t. He sprouted up out of nowhere, after months of shitty Tinder dates, and I’m starting to think you were hiding him for a while. That you were just feeding us those stories to buy you some time.” Shit, she was smart. I always knew that, but I didn’t know she could be this challenging, that she could pin me to the wall like a bug. “And you weren’t returning my texts very much, and that’s not how it is with just any new man. That’s how it is with an abuser. He isolates you. You’re prey, and he’s circling you and closing in.”

I laughed, with effort. “You’re way off, Jeanie.”

“So tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“His name, for starters.”

“I’m sure I told you this. His name is Michael.” I figured I’d minimize my outright lies. Michael was a very common name.

“What’s his last name?”

“Why the inquisition?”

“Why can’t you just answer the question?”

I decided to try a different tack. “I don’t have anything to hide and neither does Michael. But you’re right, I didn’t fall down the stairs. I just didn’t want everyone to know that I was mugged.”

“You didn’t want me to know? After everything I’ve told you over the years?” There it was again, the hurt. I hated doing that to her. She was a loyal friend; I just couldn’t afford that right now.

“I knew you’d ask if I went to the police.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t see his face. He pushed me down from behind and stole my cell phone and my cash. It was awful, and I didn’t want to relive it for nothing, because that kind of stuff happens in Oakland all the time. Without a description, what would be the point of talking to the police?”

She stepped closer. “Come on, Flora,” she said softly. “You don’t need to protect him. What you need is to go to the police. Domestic violence is a crime. He assaulted you.”

“Someone assaulted me, but I don’t know who it was.”

“I’m not going to judge you. I’ve done this dance myself. I walked into walls. I fell down stairs. I slammed my hand in a door. I was ‘klutzy,’ too.”

“That was your dance. It’s not mine.”

She ignored me, caught up in a terrible reverie. “It starts with little things. He needs to know where you are all the time. He’s jealous and possessive. He doesn’t want you out of his sight; he needs to be in touch all the time.” Boy, was she barking up the wrong tree. “At first, it seems flattering. You’ve never been with anyone so attentive. But he’ll get more and more controlling, and he’ll explode into anger, and he’ll do—well, you already know what he’ll do. He’s doing it so early, too. Usually they wait longer before they pound your face.” I tried to say something, but she wouldn’t stop talking. It’s like she couldn’t. “I’ve told you all about how I covered up the bruises and I lied for him. I lied to myself. I was in deep, but you don’t have to get there. Get out now.”