The Stranger in the Mirror(82)
“Yes. Thank you.” He opened the door for me, and I stepped onto the running board and pulled myself up onto the seat.
“Where you headed?” he asked, glancing briefly at me and then putting the truck in gear.
He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, stocky, with the start of a beer gut, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He reached his hand into a can on the console, scooping out a dollop of brown glop and putting it in his mouth. I realized with disgust that it was chewing tobacco, but he’d been kind enough to pick me up, so I couldn’t complain.
“Would you drive me to the nearest police station? I have to report a murder.”
He whipped his head around to look at me. “What? You some kind of crazy person?”
“Please,” I begged. “I’m not crazy. My husband murdered someone, his first wife. I have to get to a police station.”
His mouth moved in slow motion as he rolled the tobacco around and then spit a ball of brown juice into an empty water bottle. “No way. I’m not taking you to the police.”
He looked like someone who had probably had his share of run-ins with the law, so I tried another tack. “Just drop me off a few blocks from one. Or in any town center, really.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. I have a better idea.”
Little fingers of fear crept up my neck. “Please. Stop the truck. I’ll get out here.” I could hear the shakiness in my voice as I pulled on the door handle. Nothing. I kept pulling on it, but it wouldn’t budge.
He just laughed.
“Stop. Let me out. Please.”
He stared straight at the road ahead, ignoring me.
I knew I was in trouble now. I had to get out. “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I really appreciate the ride. You were very kind to stop and pick me up. I don’t want to get you in any trouble, so I can just get out here, and you can pretend you never saw me. Okay?”
“Shut up!” He reached over and backhanded me. My head exploded in pain, and the force knocked me into the passenger door. I must have passed out, because when I looked at the dashboard clock I saw that it was two in the morning. We’d been driving for over four hours. We suddenly jerked to a stop, and I lurched forward. He turned off the engine and spit again into the water bottle. There was nothing around us except trees. No streetlights, no houses, no stores. Desolate. No help that I could see.
“Get out,” he said in a guttural voice. I heard a click as he unlocked the doors.
Shaking my head, I pushed my back harder against the seat.
“I said get out,” he snarled. He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the driver’s side and out onto the hard ground. “Get up, bitch. We gonna have some fun.” He laughed, taking hold of my arms and yanking me up to a standing position before pulling me into the woods behind him.
I heard the sound of an animal whimpering; it wasn’t until he slapped me across the face that I realized it was coming from me. “Shut up,” he hissed, his face almost touching mine. My stomach turned as I smelled his foul breath. And then his mouth was on mine, his tongue pushing my lips apart. The rank taste of tobacco burned. I pushed my hands against his chest in a vain effort to shove him away. He took a step back and pushed me to the ground. “No,” I cried, my voice rising hysterically. “Please let me up.”
As I frantically felt around in the dirt with my free hand, it hit upon a rock. Mustering all my strength, I swung my arm and smashed it against his face. He howled in pain and rolled off me, grabbing at his cheek. I jumped up and ran blindly, not daring to look back, hearing the thud of his footsteps behind me, briars and branches tearing at my skin and clothes. Finally I heard him yell, “You ain’t worth it, bitch!” The sound of his footsteps receded.
I knew he wasn’t close, but I couldn’t stop running. The last thing I remembered was a low-hanging branch bashing into my forehead. I have no idea how long it was before I came to, but when I did, he was gone. Now I understand why I was wandering on the highway, clothes torn and dirty, with no identification on me. The doctors tell me that the shock caused me to go into a fugue state. That and the combination of drugs, hypnosis, and psychological abuse I suffered at the hands of Julian Hunter have kept my past elusive to me. I know my name now, thanks to Blythe’s detective, but I can’t connect Amelia Foster, the woman in the newspaper article, with myself.
I’m thankful every day that I’m working with a therapist I can trust now, a woman who’s helping me to put the jigsaw-puzzle pieces of my past back together. Dr. Pearlson is hopeful that over time I’ll recover most, if not all, of my memories. Knowing that the horrific discovery of my murdered family resides somewhere in my mind terrifies me to the core. But I’m through running. No matter what, I have to connect with the past so that I can make a new future.
??64??
Amelia
“Are you ready?” Dr. Pearlson asks.
“Yes,” I say, nodding vigorously.
I feel stronger than I have in a long time. I finally know who I am. My name is Amelia Foster, and I grew up in Orlando, Florida. I had a twin sister, Shannon, a mother I loved, and a father I feared. I left Florida after high school for college in Boston, where I earned a bachelor of fine arts in photography from the Massachusetts College of Art and Design.