“Do you think Jason assaulted her?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not. He’s a fucking idiot to cheat on you, but no, he didn’t do what that woman’s accusing him of.”
I was replaying Susanna’s words from lunch. We good feminists take the position that we believe every single woman, every single time. I couldn’t believe it was still the same day.
“Jason told me that this woman”—I didn’t want to speak or hear her name ever again—“was supposed to help expose the company.”
“She obviously switched sides. The timing makes sense. She went to the police right after Rachel’s complaint became public. She probably assumed that Jason was going down—maybe she was even a little jealous of what she perceived as a flirtation with some intern—and so she went to the company, told them that Jason was planning to expose them, and came up with a solution to set him up.”
When I had first seen her name in Jason’s calendar, I had sort of suspected. But I had pushed my fears aside. Maybe if I had questioned him further, if I had followed him, if I had somehow stopped him from meeting with her that day. Instead, I now had to picture him driving out to her house. Being with her, only hours after kissing me and telling me I smelled good. Giving her the very evidence she needed to frame him. We had cooked lamb chops together that night.
I was hearing Susanna’s voice again. Sometimes women lie, and it hurts us all. “It’s evil what she’s doing,” I said.
“You’ve got to assume that a company willing to cut deals with warlords is capable of anything. But a lot of wives would say Jason’s getting what he deserves, under the circumstances.”
“Maybe I’d feel that way if it weren’t for Spencer.” I had been anxious about Jason’s increasingly public profile, but Spencer was so proud of his father’s activism. My son was only thirteen years old, and he was already passionate about saving the planet, income equality, and a host of other issues. He saw Jason’s work outside of the university as the stuff of superheroes. “I can’t have his father sent to prison for something he didn’t do. I don’t want Spencer to be the son of a sex offender.”
“Oh, Jesus. Angela, I’m so sorry.” Colin’s voice cracked. Four years ago, when I told Colin not to bother with Spencer’s adoption papers after all, Jason had asked my permission to tell Colin why Spencer’s biological father wasn’t in the picture. I agreed, expanding the very small world of people who knew about my past by one. Colin treated me no differently once he knew. He never even mentioned it to me directly.
“I have to stay with him. At least until this is over,” I added. Spencer and I were the only family Jason had. His parents had both passed away by the time we met. The aunt and two cousins he had in Colorado might as well be strangers. “If I left him now, it would look like he was guilty, right?”
“Honestly? Yeah, maybe. But is that really why you’re staying?”
“Why else?”
When he finally spoke, I could tell he was choosing each word carefully. “Jason doesn’t talk to me about you, just so you know.”
“Okay?” The transition was confusing.
“But I asked him, a long time ago, about whether you’d had counseling for, well, you know. Something like this—well, maybe you’d find it helpful now.”
“Colin, I appreciate it. Really, I do. But one has nothing to do with the other. I promise.”
I could tell he wanted to say something more, but he just nodded. Then he added, “As long as you know that you can leave, Angela. You have options. You’d still have Spencer, your mother, Susanna. Even Jason would understand. And, of course, you’d still have me.”
When I walked Colin to the door, I had this image of him hugging me good-bye, kissing me on the cheek, and leaning in to see if something else would happen. I felt myself anticipating it, wondering how I would respond, feeling justified to let it go further.
Instead, he handed me his half-full glass and told me to call if there was anything he could do to help. The house felt quiet when he left. I walked to the pantry and pulled out everything I needed to bake my son a proper cake.
I was still thinking about Colin’s words two hours later as I smoothed the frosting. You can leave, Angela.
Even after Charlie kidnapped me, you could still blame me for what happened. I only tried escaping once. After a couple of months, he told me that he wanted to let me leave my room, but only if he could trust me. I promised that I would do whatever he wanted. The idea of being able to walk past that bedroom door felt like freedom. He offered me a deal: When I heard the garage door close in the morning, I could try the bedroom door. If it was open, I could be in the house free while he was gone at work, but only if I promised not to leave. It seemed too good to be true, but I jumped at the agreement. I did it once, like a perfect little victim, noticing that there was no phone in the house and all the shades were drawn. I watched TV with the volume low. I drank soda whenever I was thirsty. I made a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. It felt almost normal except for my vigilance to clean up every stray breadcrumb and to scrub my dishes clean. And then when I heard the garage door open at the end of the day, I put myself back in my room, exactly as instructed. When he came to the room that night, he said I had been “such a good girl.” It didn’t stop him from climbing on top of me, but at least he didn’t hurt me. In the morning, I tried the door after I heard him leave, and felt my heart drop. It was locked, and remained that way for another twenty-four mornings.
Then one morning, it wasn’t. I was out again. I was alone. And I thought I finally had my chance. I had been a good girl. I had earned his trust. And now I was going to get out.
I went immediately to the side door, the one I was pretty sure led to the garage. My plan was to make sure he was gone, and then leave through the front. I’d run house to house until I found someone to call the police.
Charlie was hiding in the closet at the end of the hall. He grabbed me the second my hand touched the knob on the door to the garage. And then he really hurt me. I was like a rag doll, the way he threw me, how I almost floated in the air with each punch and kick. I’m not sure how long he left me in the room alone after that, but it was long enough for me to be so hungry, I thought I might just die. I never tried to leave again. I never even let myself dream about it. I just got used to living there with him, earning new privileges.
By the end, we were almost like a family, as twisted as I know that is, now. He brought home a second girl. And I know how awful this is, but I was happy to have her there. I had a friend. No, she was more than a friend. We were like sisters in a sick, twisted fairy tale. She took some of the burden of Charlie’s needs from me. And of course there was Spencer.
All of us together made Charlie feel safer, helping create a fantasy that maybe we weren’t there involuntarily after all. We even got to walk outside a few times, as long as we took turns, one outside while one stayed home with the baby. We had to say we were sisters—his nieces—and we had to come back, or the other one and Spencer would pay the price.
The few times I went to counseling when I came home, the shrink told me I had to work on not blaming myself—blame for getting in the car, blame for being the kind of girl the police didn’t look for, blame for not getting away when I had the chance. There’s a name for it—Stockholm syndrome—but I don’t think that describes me. I did what I had to, to stay alive, and it worked. I saw Charlie fall to the ground when the police shot him, and like that, it was over. I was fine.