Hillary_Tail of the Dog (9 page)

“So where were you for all those days?” she asked again, though Monica had already ignored her question the first time she asked. Monica looked aggravated.

“I told you, I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she replied bluntly as she applied some lotion to Hillary’s arms, legs, hands and feet.

“Says who?”

“I’m almost done for today, let’s just enjoy the silence.”

“Are you mad at me for telling you about Dr. Morrison?”

“I’m not listening to you,” Monica replied as she hastily applied the lotion. She was growing tenser by the minute.

“I know, he denied it. He denied it when I told Dr. Bentley about it too.”

Monica stopped rubbing lotion on Hillary’s leg and stared over at her with a shocked expression on her face.

“You told Jake?” she asked angrily.

“Uh...if Jake is Dr. Bentley, then, uh...yeah, I told him.”

“How could you go spreading such lies about my husband?”

“How could you keep defending a man who’s a child molester?”

“Stop saying that,” Monica shouted. She was livid. “Dr. Morrison did
not
touch you, you hear me? I don’t know if you imagined it or if you’re just twisted enough to outright lie, but it did
not happen.
”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Hillary said softly and sadly, “I know you don’t want to believe your husband would do something like that. But I did not imagine it and I’m not lying. And while you were gone, it only got worse.”

After she had confronted her husband, Monica was ready to leave for good and file for divorce. It was Patrick’s idea for her to spend some time visiting her mother. He swore that he did nothing inappropriate—that Hillary was lying, trying to divide them. He seemed so sincere. He made the very idea of it seem absurd. Now, back in front of Hillary—who likewise seemed disturbingly truthful—doubts returned to Monica’s mind. She didn’t want to hear anything else...and yet, she felt compelled to know. She sighed heavily.

“How?” she asked, as she braced herself for the worst.

“He continued to touch me...and then....” her voice trailed off as she hesitated. She wasn’t quite sure how Monica would respond. She seemed determined to defend Dr. Morrison’s character and the sanctity of their marriage.

“He had sex with me,” Hillary asserted.

Monica shook her head slowly.

“No...no he didn’t,” she responded monotonously.

“Yes, he did, I swear…just a few nights ago. No one came to help me when I screamed,” she said, her voice resonating through the empty room as she grew increasingly frantic.

“He shoved it right in me,” she continued, tears beginning to streak down her face. “He didn’t even care how much it hurt me. Go look through the laundry, find the pink sheets, there’s probably blood on it.”

“He...he changed the sheets?”

“The next day,” Hillary said softly.

“How do you know?”

“Because that night they were pink and the next night these blue sheets were on the bed. I’m not blind and I’m not stupid, I know he sedates me to change the bedding. God only knows what he does to me then when I’m unconscious....”

“Why are you doing this?” Monica asked impatiently.

“When I realized you were married, I figured you should know...and also...I...I want you to stop him. I don’t want him touching me anymore.”

Monica looked deep into Hillary’s eyes. She looked frightened and exhausted. There was no hint of deception that Monica could detect. How well did she really know her husband after all? They had grown more and more distant through the years. Would it really be that surprising to find that he’d been unfaithful? Yet, it wasn’t so much the infidelity that bothered her—it was
who
he had been unfaithful with—a young girl, a patient...a captive patient. The thought made Monica feel physically ill.

Hillary could see Monica thinking about what she said. She knew that deep down Monica believed her. Even if she denied it and defended Dr. Morrison until she was blue in the face, Monica knew that he had sexually abused her.

“I won’t tell you anything else,” Hillary said quietly, still teary-eyed, “I’m sorry, Monica.”

That was all she needed to say.

“No...Hillary...I...I just don’t know what to think. I don’t want to believe it, but if it’s true, I don’t want you to suffer like that either.”

“Can you stay in here with me?” Hillary asked, in a waif-like, frightened voice.

“No, I—”

“Please,” Hillary begged, “then he couldn’t hurt me anymore.”

“I’ll be home now,” Monica said, “he wouldn’t dare—”

“He touched me when you were home before.”

“But now you’ve brought it to my attention and he knows that I’m aware of your allega—he knows I know what he did.”

“What if he comes in here while you’re asleep?”

“He wouldn’t take that chance now...I could wake up and find him in here.”

“What if he sedated you like he sedates me?”

“I would know.”

“Maybe not, you might think it was a dream.”

“I don’t think he’d go to such extreme measures,” Monica said.

“Why can’t you just stay in here? There’s room for another bed.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“What about a camera? A surveillance camera?”

Not a bad idea
, Monica thought to herself. She would remember to look into that.

“You’ll be fine now Hillary...I’m staying in a room that’s closer to you now, and I’m a very light sleeper. If Dr. Morrison enters your room at night, you yell for me and I’ll be here in less than a minute.”

“What if I’m asleep?”

“When you wake up and see him here, yell for me.”

“But what if he sedates me and—”

“It’ll be fine,” Monica said abruptly, growing agitated by Hillary’s persistence. She picked up the lotion and finished moisturizing Hillary’s skin. Hillary was at last silent. She was content that at the very least, Monica seemed to finally believe her.

“Goodnight,” Monica said when she was done. “I’ll see you in the morning. Call out for me if you need me.” Hillary didn’t reply. Monica gathered up the lotion, nail clippers, deodorant and body wash and shoved them in a small plastic tote. She picked up the small pail that was now partially full of brownish-tinged water and a dirty washcloth. She walked out of the room without looking back. Normally she would have headed for the bathroom to discard the water and put away the other items. Today, however, she walked straight down to the laundry room. There was something she needed to check.

She turned on the light and walked past the pile of laundry that fell from a chute above. Fortunately, there was a sink in the laundry room. Monica placed the plastic tote down on the floor, poured the dirty water out of the pail and rinsed it with water. She rinsed the washcloth using a squirt of body wash. She knew that she would wash it again anyway—she was just stalling. She finally wrung it out and set it upon the sink. She slowly walked over to the pile of laundry on the right, only it wasn’t much of a pile. She was the one who had always handled the laundry. In her absence, the pile should have been overflowing. Instead, there were only a few changes of Dr. Morrison’s clothes. There were no sheets, no bedding within the pile.

Monica felt nauseous as anxiety produced a sick feeling down in the pit of her stomach. Patrick Morrison was not one to do laundry and very seldom did so. It was a victory getting him to pick his clothes off the bedroom floor and throw them down the laundry chute, let alone wash them.

Monica could count the number of times she had remembered him doing so on one hand—actually on just two fingers. Once when she was angry at him at a comment he made and she was teaching him a lesson, and the second time when she had the flu and was bedridden. That time, he had only done so because his “lucky” shirt was dirty and he was performing a new surgical procedure the next day in front of the Chief of Neurology from a specialized hospital he wanted to transfer to. That had been over four years ago. What urgency had compelled him to do laundry now, Monica wondered, but feared she knew the answer.

Leaving the plastic tote, pail and washcloth behind, Monica hurried out of the laundry room and walked up to the linen closet. She held her breath as she threw open the door. Towels were folded neatly on the bottom rows. Sheets and bedding were folded on top.

What color did Hillary say the sheet was?
Monica thought, as she looked up at the pile.
Pink, definitely pink.
The pink sheet at the top of the pile was not folded as neatly...was basically wadded up in a flattened ball and shoved on top.
Yes, this is the one,
Monica thought nervously as she reached up and grabbed it. The clean smell of detergent and fabric softener stimulated her olfactory senses and increased her nausea as the sheet passed under her nose.

She shook it open and examined it closely, looking for stains. There—just below the center—was the unmistakable blood stain. Monica dropped the sheet as her worst fear was confirmed. At first she stood there frozen, not knowing what to do. She began to tremble with disgust, anguish, anger. She swiftly swooped up the sheet and walked to her bedroom. It was just after seven o’clock. Patrick would be home soon. She would wait for him and confront him with the undeniable evidence.

Monica was awakened by Patrick’s entrance. She had fallen asleep waiting for him to return home. It was almost nine o’clock now. She rubbed her eyes then sat up abruptly, remembering the sheet which was crumpled beside her. Patrick’s eyes were fixed upon it. He then looked at Monica who glared up at him furiously.

“What’s this about?” he asked, annoyed. That was his usual tendency, to be offensive when he grew defensive.

“You tell me,” Monica replied venomously.

“Why do you have that sheet in here?”

“Why is there a blood stain on this sheet?” Her eyes were like lasers burning holes in his head.

“What are you talking about?” he answered naively. Monica threw the sheet at him violently. She was in no mood to be patronized.

“Enough!” she yelled. “I know what you did to that girl.”

“Oh God, not this again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Nothing happened, Monica, how can you let her deceive you like this?”

“Shut up, Patrick, the proof is right there.” Monica pointed to the sheet.

“That proves nothing. She has a urinary catheter in her—it causes bleeding sometimes.”

“Yeah, all of a sudden? Coincidentally when she accuses you of raping her?”

“It happens, Monica, catheters cause bleeding” he said defensively.

“And it was such a big emergency to do the laundry all of a sudden? You
never
do the laundry...but I guess you wanted to get rid of other fluids on the sheet,” she snapped.

“What are you insinuating, Monica?”

“I’m not insinuating anything…you know exactly what I’m saying, Patrick. You raped her...you raped that girl...you....”

Monica broke down and cried, turning her face away from him. She couldn’t finish her thoughts, her sentence. She was too repulsed, too overwhelmed by the knowledge that her husband had not just cheated on her, but had sexually abused a minor. Patrick walked over to console her. She shirked away as if cringing from an attacker.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she shouted scornfully.

He retreated and sat at the foot of the bed.

“Monica, I swear, I never touched her—”

“You’re a liar!” she screamed. “I know you did it, I know it.”

Patrick reached over grabbed her by the shoulders firmly.

“I did no such thing, Monica. She’s the one who’s a liar. I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion.”

Monica pulled away and got off the bed.

“Don’t touch me again,” she said angrily.

“I did laundry because it was piling up. I didn’t know how long you’d be gone, what was I supposed to do?”

Monica turned and left, without answering him. She walked into the guest bedroom, the one closest to the room where Hillary lay in bed smiling, having overheard the shouting.

Monica had already moved most of her clothing and personal effects into the guest room. She was convinced that her husband had molested Hillary. She would never forgive him for it.

~7~

As promised, Monica visited with Hillary the following morning. She looked nearly as bad as Hillary, given her restless night. Hillary, on the other hand, had finally slept soundly. It was one of the few nights she could recall where she didn’t wake up terrified from a dreadful nightmare. Perhaps the good mood she was in had something to do with it. She finally had someone on her side.

Monica was wearing a sleeveless lilac-colored dress with a pretty beaded trim along the neckline. The dress accentuated her slim figure. It was the first time Hillary had noticed how pretty she truly was. Her reddish, amber-colored hair shone like copper in loose curls that hung just below her shoulders. There was a scar on her upper arm, just under her left shoulder. Other than that, her skin was smooth and flawless.

“I’m sorry,” Hillary said softly.

“For what?” Monica asked, as she sat on the chair beside Hillary’s bed.

“For causing so much trouble,” she said sincerely.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Monica said. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you had to...I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she said uncomfortably.

“You believe me then?” she asked, wide-eyed, though she had heard Monica and Dr. Morrison shouting the night before and already knew Monica was finally convinced of Dr. Morrison’s guilt.

“Yes,” Monica responded curtly.

“Monica, you know he’s not treating me right...and not just by touching me. I shouldn’t be tied to this bed.”