Her Beautiful Mind Read online

  That someone will remove my wet, uncomfortable clothes and let me play in warm water before dressing me in clean clothes and feeding me fresh food. If I’m happy smiles and don’t cry, there will be talk and giggling, patty-cake, and cuddling in a soft bed when it gets dark. If I do cry, there will be loud words and angry faces. I learned early not to cry.

  The next day, I’ll be left in the quiet room again.

  One day, as I’m watching the light move, I crawl over into it, becoming part of those patterns on the walls around me, on the ceiling above me, and on the floor beneath me. I’ve changed the patterns by being in them. I am the chaos that has interrupted their orderly progression.

  I loved those patterns; I felt safe inside them.

  I don’t know how or when someone stopped coming, or how or when I left the room. Although I have other vague memories of that time, it’s the only clear one of my life before I went to live with Gran. Over the years—when I’ve allowed myself to think about it—I’ve realized it must have been my mother who left me there each day when she went to work or to do whatever she did.

  I’ll never know why she didn’t take me to a sitter or daycare. Her accidental death caused the police to find me and notify Granny of my existence.

  I’ve always wondered if being a young child left alone in a room by herself all day affected my brain and the way I think and function. Perhaps it only exacerbated what was already there.

  I do know being in the room made me quiet, withdrawn, and reluctant to cry. The pleasant expression I sometimes wear is a mask to hide the small, bewildered child who still needs “someone” to be nice to her.

  Now that I’ve confessed my oldest, deepest, darkest secret to you, do you still find my mind beautiful? If you were here beside me, would you look away in disgust or stare at me in wonder again?

  Perhaps it’s a good thing we’ll never know.

  Chapter 9

  Tears

  Date: Sunday, March 16

  Starting Location: Whitley Gap Shelter

  Destination: Blue Mountain Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 48.5

  I wake up sobbing.

  Granny’s funeral was the last time I cried so hard. Even when I’m upset, frustrated, nervous, or generally having a bad day, I always find some other way to handle my emotions. I don’t cry. But I woke this morning … crying in my sleep. Weird dreams haunted me all night. I was either running toward something or away from it, being chased or chasing someone. An overwhelming sadness and loneliness gripped me until I awoke, sitting upright in my tent and sobbing for something just out of my reach.

  It’s early. Fog still wraps the surrounding woods in whiteness. It’s barely light enough to see, but I’m ready to move on. I quickly pack my gear, and then glance around to make sure I have all my things. My gaze falls on the shelter register I’d written in the night before. For a moment, I consider tearing out the page I filled with my memories but decide to let it be. I haven’t signed or dated it, and no one will ever know who Hud is. Perhaps it’s best to just leave this misused shelter, the wet, sodden forest, and those memories from so long ago.

  I hike out. The road crossing comes quickly. I scurry across, senses alert for any sound of traffic in the blinding fog. Then I disappear into the mist-shrouded forest on the other side.

  The hours pass. I hike through fog and mist, light rain, and then a sudden, drenching downpour, which is over almost as soon as it begins. The sun finally makes its appearance mid-morning before hiding behind more clouds. It plays peek-a-boo all afternoon with the wind-swept clouds passing overhead.

  There are more road crossings, some paved, some gravel, each one a link to the outside world I’m hiding from. I struggle up steep, slippery slopes, traverse rocky ridgelines, and descend into shady gaps. Almost every mile contains a clear, cold mountain stream to be forded, some by hopping from stone to stone, some on worn, wooden bridges built by volunteer maintenance crews designed to protect both the stream and the hiker crossing it. I skirt cliff faces, pick my way gingerly across rock falls, and cross open meadows. False summit after false summit teases me until I finally emerge onto a sunny bald with views stretching on forever.

  Sometimes, the trail circles back on itself, heading south for a while before turning east or west as it circumvents a dangerous or unclimbable obstacle in its path, but eventually it turns north again. I let it lead me north, always north, following the memory of the junco’s song, the falling star, and those tiny footsteps.

  The day is long, unhurried, and slow. Every hour, I find someplace—a log, a rock, a tree stump or grassy area—where I can sit, rest, eat, and drink. I try not to think about Hudson or New York, but my thoughts, like a hamster in its cage, spin round and around and around, working furiously but never getting anywhere. I find them impossible to stop. When I top a small rise and find a bench cut from a downed tree overlooking a green valley below, I sit and let the memories wash over me.

  Finding Gia and then confronting her as she stood in the doorway of Hudson’s condo was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Like me, she’d changed from the business clothes she’d worn to the meeting. But while I wore jeans, a tee shirt, and a hoodie, she was dressed in tailored wool slacks and a cashmere sweater. My ratty high-tops were a stark contrast to her red-soled heels. I’d stuck my shaking hands in my pockets and swallowed the bile that rose in my throat as I faced her disapproving glare.

  Somehow, I’d found the courage to argue with her when she claimed Hudson had only been using me, but my bravado had quickly wilted in the face of her pitying, condescending look. “Oh, Ariella; sweet, innocent, naïve Ariella.” I can still hear her voice in my head. “Did you really think Hudson and his family would just welcome you with loving arms? Did you think you could fit into their elite society? Hudson needs a woman who is his equal, a woman who knows how to act and talk properly, and knows which fork to use. A woman who is an asset, who understands how to further his career. Did you seriously think it was you?”

  Courage gone, I’d turned from her in defeat, but her cloyingly sweet voice had followed me down the hallway. “I’m sorry you had to hear this from me,” she continued. “Hudson has a wonderful future ahead of him, and I’m the kind of woman who will help him reach his full potential. A woman like you, who can barely speak in front of people, who looks like a frightened mouse most of the time, is not the woman Hudson needs or deserves.”

  Her words were hard to hear then and they’re hard to remember now. I’d often wondered the same thing. How could someone like him be interested in someone like me? It was easy to accept the truth of them. Hudson does deserve someone better than me, and I care enough about him to accept that I’m not that person. The sting is still there, the harsh words still hurt. But strangely, the pain is dulled, and I don’t feel as miserable as I did when I first left New York.

  With a sigh and a shake of my head, I stand, adjust the straps on my back, pick up my hiking poles, and begin walking. With all my focus on the trail beneath my feet, it’s much easier to ignore the stray thoughts clamoring for my attention.

  By late afternoon, I’ve finished twelve miles and find myself at Blue Mountain Shelter. A group of five hikers, all male, are sitting at the picnic table in front of the lean-to, each one cooking a hot dinner on their various camping stoves. The aroma hits me, and my stomach growls in displeasure at my failure to feed it anything but snacks and junk food all day. I find a place at the end of the table and pull out my dinner supplies and stove, quickly boiling enough water for the evening’s packaged noodle meal before adding a packet of tuna for extra protein, calories, and fat.

  The hikers are friendly, greeting me with smiles and introducing themselves. They all use trail names, hiding their real identities behind an assumed persona, just as I do when I introduce myself as Ella. I listen to their conversation, only taking part when asked a direct question, and g
radually, I’m mostly ignored as I eat my meal. I’m surprised, however, when they all repack their backpacks and begin to leave. The nice evening has persuaded them to try to reach another shelter a few more miles up the trail. Although I’m invited to hike along, I decline.

  Once again, I have a shelter all to myself. I consider sleeping in it, but I’m still a little nervous from spending time with five strangers, so I opt instead to set up camp in a small clearing some distance from the shelter. There are enough trees and undergrowth to hide me from any hikers who might wander in later. It’s also in the opposite direction from the privy, another definite advantage.

  I find the scarf, rolled up and sealed in a plastic baggie, at the bottom of my clothes bag. I’d forgotten I’d tucked it into the bag, piling shorts, shirts, woolen sleeping tights, and extra socks on top of it. Frustrated because I couldn’t find the wool pullover I normally slept in, I dumped the whole bag, and it fell out on top of the pile. Besides the clothes I’d been wearing when I left New York, it was the only thing I brought with me.

  Cautiously, I open the storage bag, making sure my hands are clean before I pull it out. It’s exquisite, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever owned. A long, rectangular, handwoven and hand-embroidered scarf crafted from wool and silk threads so fine, so sheer, it almost floats in the air as I gently shake it to release the folds. The blues, peaches, and corals in the abstract floral pattern glow in the light from the setting sun streaming through my tent door. Intricately knotted fringe on each end tickles my fingers as I pull the length slowly across my hands.

  I fold it carefully, looping its length around my neck, remembering the way Hudson’s hands felt when he placed it there. He’d reached behind my head, freeing my heavy braid, which was caught under it. His hand lingered there as we stared at each other, our faces close, our lips almost touching. My eyes fluttered closed as I leaned in toward him, longing for my first kiss, wanting it from him. But he stepped back, putting distance between us, and I opened my eyes, mortified at what I’d done.

  Emotions flickered across his face as mine flamed with embarrassment. “Ariella,” he whispered, “I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have.” Then he took another step away before turning to the artist whose handiwork I was wearing around my neck and handing her his credit card. She smiled as she rang up the purchase, telling me how lovely it looked on me and complimenting him on his excellent taste in clothing and girlfriends. Laughing, he agreed with her before taking my hand and leading me off to explore the rest of the street fair.

  I wore the scarf all afternoon as we wandered through the artists’ booths, admiring the stunning variety of artwork and handmade crafts while stuffing ourselves with fresh pastries and ethnic goodies. It was a glorious autumn afternoon in New York City, sunny but cool, a gentle breeze ruffling the Technicolor leaves of Central Park. We finished the day dancing to a street band, watching the moon rise over the city before he took me home.

  There was another moment as we stood in front of my apartment door when I thought he might kiss me, but he lightly bussed my forehead instead before thanking me for a wonderful day and saying he would see me at work on Monday. Disappointment bloomed within me as I watched him walk down the hallway and enter the elevator, turning with a slight goodbye wave before the doors closed on him.

  Later, when I was placing the scarf in a drawer, I found the very discreet price tag for $500. Hudson hadn’t even asked how much it was, just purchasing it because it was lovely and looked beautiful on me. I shook my head, marveling again at the differences in our backgrounds and upbringing.

  I wore the scarf many times over the next year, sometimes casually with jeans, sometimes with work dresses or skirts. The size was perfect for looping around my neck or wrapping around my shoulders. Once, I even knotted it around my hips. I always received compliments when I wore it, and Hudson always smiled when he saw it on me. There were wonderful memories attached to his special gift.

  I wore it that last day in New York.

  It was the morning after he spent the night with me. We showered together, and I finally found out why so many of the romance books I sometimes secretly indulged in included a sex-in-the-shower scene. Unlike our first time the night before when he had taken his time with slow, soothing touches, massaging my back and shoulders, kissing his way from my neck to my toes, caressing and fondling my body with his fingers. Unlike the gentle way he finally entered me, waiting for me to relax and adjust to him, staring into my eyes the entire time as he whispered words of love and adoration. Unlike our perfect first time, this time was … different. His hands were a little rougher, more demanding, needier.

  He touched me everywhere—fingers, mouth, and teeth—bringing me to the point where I was almost incoherent with want. One hand wrapped itself in my hair, tilting my head to the side as his mouth latched onto mine, his tongue invading me even as I felt his other hand slide across my wet belly and slip between my legs. Garbled moans and cries filled my ears, and I realized with a start that I was the one making those pleading noises.

  His mouth pulled away from mine, and I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. “Tell me this is okay. Please … Please, tell me I can have you again.” His pleading words only increased my desire, my mumbled response changing to a desperate, “Yes,” when his lips found my hardened nipple.

  Hudson’s strong body pushed mine against the shower wall. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and he raised my foot to rest on the shower bench. His gruff, desperate voice told me to hold on, and then he was inside me.

  I forgot my worries about the important, final meeting waiting for us later in the day, forgot all thoughts about what I should wear, what I should say, how I should act. There was only the here and now as my world shrank to the glass walls around us. I was barely aware of the warm water hitting my shoulders, the slick tiles against my feet, and the clean, herbal scent of my soap. My existence, my entire focus, was on the feel of him inside me and the tension growing in the pit of my stomach.

  Lips and hands roamed. Squeezing, rubbing, nipping, almost demanding in their insistence that something happen. I was vaguely aware of the gasping sounds coming from my lips as I felt pressure build and build.

  For a moment, it was as if all time stopped, as if my brain no longer thought, my lungs no longer breathed, my heart no longer pumped; instead, my whole being was frozen, focused on Hudson and the place we were joined. His mouth moved across the side of my neck, hot breath blowing on my wet skin before I felt a sharp sting and his teeth sink into the straining muscle at the top of my shoulder. That was all it took for the growing pressure to release, exploding through my body in rhythmic contractions and a long wail of overwhelming pleasure even as a rushing heat swept over my chest and neck. I felt him swell within me, and then his pulsing orgasm as I continued to clench around him.

  We were both breathing heavily when we finally eased apart. Hudson wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest where I rested my head over his rapidly beating heart. We stood for a few long moments, letting the warm water cascade over our heads. Finally, he reached for my shampoo bottle, squeezing a generous amount onto his hands before he began to rub them soothingly through my hair and down across my shoulders and back. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, and I shivered against him, moving closer before wrapping my arms around his waist.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered softly. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I whispered back before tilting my head up to look at him. “It was good. I mean, I liked it, and I … Well, you know, I guess I orgasmed,” I mumbled in embarrassment.

  “Yeah, I know.” He chuckled, a proud, self-satisfied, pleased-with-myself smirk on his face. “I could feel it, and, well, so did I.”

  “I know.” I laughed back at him. “I could feel it, too.”

  Hudson’s eyes widened and a horrified expression wiped the pleased smile from his face. “Oh, s
hit, Ariella. I didn’t use a condom. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I got carried away, and I didn’t stop to think and—”

  “It’s okay.” I tried to reassure him. “I’m on the pill, and you know there wasn’t anyone else before you.”

  “Yes, but still …” Placing his hands on each side of my face, he stared at me intently. “I promise you I’m clean. I’ve always been very, very careful, and there hasn’t been anyone else, not in a long, long time.”

  Not knowing what to say, I nodded silently before moving into his embrace once more. A tiny, possessive part of me was very happy to hear there has been no one else for some time.

  We finally parted, finishing our showers and our preparations for the day. Later, when I was in my closet slipping into the new, dark teal dress and jacket I planned to wear, Hudson sought me out, smiling at the color he loved so much on me. When I reached for a necklace, he stilled my hands, asking me to please wear my scarf instead.

  I did as he wished, wrapping and arranging it around my neck, savoring the loving look on his face as I did so. It was only later, after I fled the meeting room and office building where everything had gone so terribly wrong, that I realized why he asked me to wear the scarf. As I stood facing my bathroom mirror, shock and anger making me tremble in disbelief, I reached up and tore the scarf from my throat to be confronted with more evidence of his manipulation. There, just above the neckline of the dress but hidden all day by the folds of silk and wool, was a bruise—a love bite, the shape of his mouth plainly visible on my skin.

  Involuntarily, my hand rises to cover the area where the bruise has finally faded. Gia had seen it that night in the hallway as I turned to leave. The fury on her face had been a frightening thing.