That Which Does Not Kill Us

That Which Does Not Kill Us

         Crissy Campbell forced her overwrought legs onward across the near-empty parking lot. Without deliberate and coerced forward momentum, she would still be at home sitting in her armchair, pushed from its normal position near the window to dead center in the living room, directly under the ceiling light she never turned off. Her heart pounded like she was racing a marathon. Or running for her life.

         She’d parked in the glare of a lamp post as close to the main doors as possible, but the expanse of blacktop between her car and the florescent sanctuary of the building was the treadmill belt of childhood nightmares. She clutched the small gold cross on a chain around her neck as she trekked through the gloom. A twig snapped in the shadows to the right, bursting a balloon of fear in her chest. Screw this. She bolted for the doors.

         Safely inside, she collapsed against the doorframe. But her proximity triggered the sensor, and the doors swished open again. She stumbled deeper into the hospital lobby, a shaky hand kneading her forehead.

         She’d thought surviving the rape would be the hardest part. But she’d been wrong. At the time, pinned under the weight of a masked man with crazed eyes, his hand clamped across her forehead, the back of her skull grinding into the gravel, she’d known her life was in his clutch. The knife blade that bit down into the taut skin under her chin with each brutal thrust confirmed and magnified her vulnerability. She’d laid there, pried open, pleading to God with silent screams. Don’t let him kill me. Please don’t let him kill me!

         Now five weeks later, she questioned God’s mercy. Life around her went on. Outside her duplex windows, the sun rose in the morning and set at dusk. Laughing families still strolled the neighborhood while she sat behind a locked door. Every day the postman stuffed the mailbox with bills, while her pottery shop stayed closed, a layer of dust building on the clay-caked wheel. The rent was overdue.

         This was only the third time she’d been outdoors since that fated day. The need for nourishment first drove her out, to the grocery store. But she hadn't mustered the courage to go back to work. Her once childlike creativity, purity and honesty had been corrupted by this tragedy in her life. Besides, going to the shop meant returning to the scene of the crime.

         The second time she’d ventured out was just this morning to CVS, for Clear Blue confirmation of what she knew in her heart – feared – was true…

         “Miss Campbell?”

         Crissy’s head shot up as a violent intake of air tore noisily down her throat.

         “I’m sorry to startle you. You are Miss Campbell, right?”

         Crissy stared wide-eyed at the statuesque woman approaching with her hand extended. She blinked, forcing the muscles around her eyes to relax. “Yes, yes I am.” She grasped the woman’s hand. Its feminine warmth calmed her. “Please excuse me. I…I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

         “Well, I apologize for asking you to meet us in the middle of the night. I’m Meredith Boone, we spoke on the phone earlier. I realize it’s an unorthodox hour to conduct an interview. But as you’ll see, I represent a most unorthodox employer. Won’t you come this way?”

         The clean-shaven gentleman manning the reception desk looked too fresh for four-thirty in the morning. He sat with his back erect, nodding to them as they passed, and reached for the telephone. His suit looked expensive.

         “How did you get into the interpreting business?” Meredith asked as she pulled a plastic badge from her pocket and waved it at a wall-mounted sensor. Double doors marked “Authorized Hospital Staff Only, No Admittance” swung open to reveal a deserted hallway.

         Crissy tried to concentrate on how to answer the question, but the clack of Meredith’s heels echoing down the corridor frazzled her nerves. “I don’t interpret full-time,” she managed to say. “I’m a pottery artist, actually. So, you can imagine the extra money comes in handy.” Crissy had meant it as a joke, but the light-hearted bubble of laughter she’d normally punctuate with didn’t come.

         Meredith smiled and turned to face Crissy in front of a door marked “Private.” Crissy had to look up into the taller woman’s face.

         “Whatever happens from this point forward, I must ask for discretion on your part. My employer is a very private person. Naturally, if word of this situation should reach the press, we will know from where they got their information.”

         Crissy’s head bobbed on her neck. “Of course,” she quickly said. Had she just been threatened? A wave of nausea churned her stomach and she longed to be back in her living room, in the armchair under the light.

         “Excellent,” Meredith said, her smile returning. She rapped a knuckle on the door and turned the handle, motioning for Crissy to enter.

         The room appeared to be an office. It was dark in here compared to the hallway, lit only by a green-shaded lamp on the corner of the desk. Behind the desk sat a woman.

         It took Crissy a full beat to realize she recognized the woman. It was Vanessa King, Academy Award-winning film actress and Hollywood A-lister and, oh God, what the hell was going on here? The room tilted and Crissy stumbled, her hand grasping for anything solid.

         “Meredith, help her for God sake!” Vanessa said, standing.

         Strong hands clutched Crissy’s arm and around her waist. She was helped into a chair and a moment later, handed an icy bottle of mineral water.

         “Are you all right, dear?” Vanessa perched on the edge of the desk in front of Crissy’s chair. “Have a sip of that water.”

         Crissy reverted again to her bobble-head behavior, too numb to speak.

         “Well, my name is Vanessa King. But, I assume you know that?”

         The cold water countered the dizziness. Crissy sat up straighter and put out her hand. “Yes, I’m so sorry. I’m Crissy. Crissy Campbell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Now that her brain was back online, she looked more closely at Vanessa. The glamour of magazine cover shots and red carpet appearances was blatantly absent tonight. Still, the woman was gorgeous in her velvet yoga pants and matching hoodie, her prominent cheekbones and porcelain skin the envy of many an adoring fan, Crissy included. But her eyes, free from make-up, were puffy and rimmed with red.

         “You must be wondering what I’m doing at your job interview, yes?”

         “Well, yes, sort of. I guess.”

         “Turns out, I’m your potential employer. I have an urgent task that must be performed this evening.” Vanessa glanced down at her hands. She looked so sad. “It’s most unpleasant. But I’m prepared to pay handsomely for your service.”

         Crissy glanced between Vanessa and Meredith, who stood stoically at the door. “Ms. King,” Crissy said, “I’m not sure I can help—”

         “Please, call me Vanessa.”

         Crissy nodded. “Vanessa, I only speak English and French, so…”

         “I am aware of your qualifications. You learned French from your childhood next door neighbor, Madam Jacquet, an elderly woman from Chartres who cared for you for the first five years of your life while your mother clawed her way up a small-town corporate ladder. I also know that you don’t do regular interpretation work because you are a full-time artist and business owner. You hail from the small town of Hanover, Pennsylvania but moved to the greater Los Angeles area a year ago with your boyfriend, Marc. I’m sorry, by the way, about your break-up.”

         Crissy stared at Vanessa, her mouth open.

         Vanessa bit her lip before going on. “Please understand, Crissy. A person in my position must do her homework before inviting a stranger into her inner circle. The most thorough background check permitted by law was conducted on you today.” She paused. “And, I know about your attack last month.”

         Crissy’s eyebrows knitted together and she blinked rapidly. Vanessa reached down and put a hand on her knee. “I know what you’re going through. I was raped when I was fifteen years old. It wasn’t the same. My offender was my uncle, not a stranger. You’re ordeal must have been the ultimate in terrifying.”

         Crissy couldn’t feel the chair beneath her. All this was too much. Just being outside the cocoon of her house, where danger lurked in every shadow, was hard enough. But sitting here in the middle of the night, in the company of the Vanessa King who knew everything about her, left her in a fog. At the same time, Vanessa just shared her own private and painful experience. Suddenly, she was less a celebrity and more a regular person -- a victim, like Crissy. Crissy felt a connection between them, a rope to a buoy on the surface of a stormy sea.

         “I’m so afraid every day,” Crissy whispered. “My life used to be normal. Now, nothing is normal. Nothing.”

         Meredith noiselessly sidled up and handed Crissy a box of Kleenex.

         “Thank you, Meredith,” Vanessa said. “Now would you step out, please, and give us some privacy?”

         Meredith nodded and left them alone. When the door clicked shut, Vanessa collapsed into the chair next to Crissy.

         “What I’m about to propose is not normal, either, I’m afraid. But I need you. Besides the fact that you have no ties to Hollywood or the press corps, you can speak French. And I desperately need someone to trust who can speak French.” She reached for a tissue from Crissy’s box and pressed it to the corner of her eyes.

         Crissy turned in her chair, pulling her thin legs up under her. “Why do you need someone who speaks French?”

         Vanessa rearranged herself in her chair, folding her legs into the same pose, facing Crissy. Her gaze was intense. “I am in the process of adopting a little boy from the Central African Republic. He’s six years old and only speaks French and Sango.”

         Without thinking, Crissy placed a hand on her tummy. When she realized, she pulled it away and brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped the clip at the back of her head.

         “You’re adopting a child?” she said. “That’s fantastic. I’m sure if I read the magazines, I would already know that.”

         Vanessa shook her long, dark hair. “No, you wouldn’t have. I’ve managed to keep it very quiet. After what Madonna and Angelina went through, I decided to conduct my business on the down-low.”

         Crissy nodded, aware of the absurdity of suddenly being on a first name basis with the likes of Vanessa King and Madonna. If she looked as awkward as she felt, taking another swig of her mineral water, Vanessa didn’t seem to notice.

         “Oh Crissy, you should have seen where Mathieu was living. His mother died from AIDS, leaving his father to care for all six of their children. Since the fields he tends are a day’s walk into the bush, he sends all the kids to the village orphanage. Sometimes, for weeks at a time.

         “The orphanage is just a small mud brick structure, but it houses thirty children. Thirty! They have no electricity, no running water. Chickens and goats roam inside the building and around the yards, pissing and shitting, as animals do. The conditions are deplorable.”

         “How did you find out about it?”

         Vanessa smiled. “I was on holiday in the CAR, visiting the remote wildlife reserve in Bayanga, in the south near the Congolese border. On the way back, our vehicle broke down, so we stayed a couple days in Mathieu’s village. Mathieu and I were drawn together, there’s no other way to explain it. Like we belonged in the same family. His big eyes broke my heart. And his laugh! That child is always smiling, always giggling. He is sunshine, in little boy form.”

         Crissy smiled too, but her forehead creased. “So, he was happy? Living at the orphanage?”

         Vanessa flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Well, yes, I suppose. But the filth! I just couldn’t leave him there in all that filth.” A shadow passed over her face. “But then again, if I had left him alone, none of this would have happened. It’s all my fault! I brought him here. I may as well have pushed him under that car, myself!”

         Crissy leaned forward, hesitating at first but then placing her hand atop Vanessa’s. “There was a car accident?”

         Vanessa wrapped her tapered fingers around Crissy’s hand, but she turned her face away. She dabbed her tissue under her nose with her free hand.

         Crissy watched Vanessa, whose guilt was so vivid it almost felt like a third person in the room. Crissy recognized it; her own guilt had kept her company all these weeks. What intelligent woman stays out alone until that hour of night? She’d been lost in her creativity. Hypnotized by the pottery wheel. She should have stayed put, slept in the shop. But she didn’t. She was the only one to blame for the rape. She’d asked for it.

         Without turning back, Vanessa heaved a heavy sigh. “He ran into the road after a soccer ball. The car crushed Mathieu’s left leg beyond repair. Last night, the doctors amputated above the knee.”

         Crissy covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a gasp.

         Vanessa pulled her gaze around, locking eyes with Crissy. “He’ll be awake soon. The poor thing doesn’t know what’s happened to him. I need you to tell Mathieu. Explain to him about his leg. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars, tonight.” She dropped her face into her slender hands, her body shaking with sobs.

         The horror of the task seeped into Crissy’s brain like liquid wax running down the length of a burning candle, and then realization pooled in a thick, hardening mass in her heart.

         It was just one conversation to get through. And then, the ten thousand dollars would cover the back rent for both the house and the shop, with money left over for the other pressing issue she faced. This was more punishment, that’s all. Just another consequence to face for her careless stupidity.


         Crissy's self-deprecating resolve began to slip, though, the moment they entered Mathieu’s room. Colorful balloon bouquets brightened the space, but a dozen flower arrangements waged a losing battle against the antiseptic stink of hospital cleanliness. Mathieu lay on a bed that looked massive around the boy’s small body. His eyes opened when they walked into the room. Crissy said a silent prayer and forced a smile on her face.

         “Bonjour,” she said. “Je m’appelle Crissy.”

         Mathieu’s return greeting escaped his swollen lips on a breath of air. He tried to smile back.

         She asked how he was feeling. Sweat trickled down the small of her back beneath her sweater.

“Ça va,” he said. Good. Crissy ran her fingers down a strand of hair and gingerly perched on the edge of his bed, watching his eyes for signs of discomfort. She swallowed hard.

         In French, she said, “Mathieu, you’re in a hospital, did you know that?”

         When he nodded, she went on. “Your mom and the doctors and nurses tell me what a strong, brave boy you are. I can tell they’re right.” She smiled, and when Mathieu returned the grin she winked at him. “We’re all here to take care of you and help you get better as quickly as possible.”

         She paused, resting her hands in her lap so the boy wouldn’t notice them shaking. “When you were playing, a car accidently hit you. Do you remember that?”

         Mathieu slowly shook his head from side to side.

         “Well, we’re all so happy it didn’t hurt you worse. A car is very big and heavy, and it could have...” Crissy stopped herself before she said “died.” God, she was terrible at this. A painful lump threatened to choke her, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Would she find the right words now? She looked over at Vanessa, who moved to the opposite side of the bed and took Mathieu’s hand, kissing his fingertips. Matthieu grinned, his little shoulders coming up to his ears.

         She couldn’t do it. Her legs itched with the envy to flee. But she needed that money or she’d lose the shop and her house. Taking a slow, steady breath of air, she went on.

         “Mathieu,” she said softly, drawing his attention away from Vanessa. “You survived the accident, but you were badly hurt. The doctors are fixing you up. But, the thing is, one of your little legs…” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she were far, far away from this room, from this moment. A tear streaked down her cheek. “One of your little legs was crushed and, well…the doctors needed to…to take it. Take it off.”

         Crissy swiped at her tears as Mathieu continued to stare at her, his chocolate eyes slowly growing larger.

         “Did you tell him?” Vanessa asked timidly.

         Mathieu spoke, his voice just a hoarse whisper. “Je peux voir?”

         Crissy shot a horrified look at Vanessa. “Yes, I told him. And he wants to see!”

         Before they could react, Mathieu was tugging the blankets at his chest, struggling to sit up. Vanessa nodded to Crissy, and the two women slipped their hands under his shoulder blades and pulled him up until he was seated. Vanessa caressed his face, and then slowly pulled the covers down.

         Mathieu stared at his legs poking out from beneath the hospital gown. One brown limb finished with a knobby foot, the other was not half as long and wrapped in white bandages. He wiggled his toes, then looked at Crissy with questioning eyes. He said he could feel both feet moving.

         “C’est normal,” Crissy replied. She’d heard of the strange phenomenon of phantom sensation experienced by amputees.

         “Est-ce que ma jambe va repousser?”

         His little voice broke Crissy’s heart. She reached for Mathieu’s and Vanessa’s hands. She spoke first in French, and then repeated in English: No baby, your leg won’t grow back.

         It was a lot to take in, especially for a child. Mathieu didn’t say very much, but as Crissy translated Vanessa’s words of encouragement and her explanations about the prosthetic leg he would soon wear, his face told a litany of silent stories as vivid as Vanessa’s Oscar-winning dramas. It would be a while before the full magnitude of losing a limb would sink in, before Mathieu understood to what extent his life would be forever altered. It was a process Crissy knew all too well during the past weeks. The stages of grief. The questions. Why did such horrible things happen to such innocent people? And how is one supposed to move forward when normalcy becomes extinct, when a sliver of the soul has perished?

         Finally the small boy’s tear-stained cheek slumped to the side, and he drifted off to sleep. Vanessa and Crissy walked slowly back to the office like emotionally-drained players from a defeated sports team. Vanessa made a call asking for one of her assistants to come, and Crissy recognized the gentleman from the reception desk, when Mr. Peterman appeared. Vanessa handed Crissy several bank-banded stacks of bills, ten thousand dollars in cash, and hugged her like a sister. The sun had burned off the early morning fog when the still clean-shaven Mr. Peterman escorted her to her car.


         At seven the following morning, Crissy’s cell phone rang. Startled out of a fitful sleep, she sat bolt upright in the armchair in the middle of the living room. She cleared her throat twice before flipping it open. “Hello?”

         “Crissy! Vanessa here. I hope I didn’t wake you, dear, but I need you to come to the hospital as quickly as you can. Mathieu’s been talking a mile a minute since he woke this morning. He’s trying desperately to tell me something but I can’t understand him. Please say you’ll come!”

         “Is he okay?” Crissy asked.

         Vanessa must have considered that an affirmative answer, because she replied, “I’m sending a car now. See you in twenty!” And she hung up.

         Crissy had just enough time to wash her face and twist her hair up, securing the long curled tress to the back of her head with a clip, when the doorbell rang. Her queasy stomach burned with hunger, so she grabbed a granola bar on the way out.

         “Good morning, Mr. Peterman,” she said, shutting the front door behind her.

         Her apprehension rose steadily on the ride to the hospital and intensified as she walked down the hallway to Mathieu’s room. How was the boy coping with his loss, now that he’d had twenty-four hours for it to sink in? She heard his melodic voice, muffled through the door. She cocked her head, listening, before knocking on the door and pushing it open.

         Mathieu was sitting up in bed, his back propped by pillows. He turned to her as she entered, his smile growing wider. “Crissy! Tu es lá!” he shouted.

         Vanessa was right. He was sunshine, personified. His glow was infectious, and Crissy grinned back at him.

         “Of course I’m here,” she said in French. “I missed you since yesterday.” She bent down and kissed him on each cheek.

         Vanessa welcomed her with another warm embrace. “Thanks so much for coming,” she said over Crissy’s shoulder before releasing her. “He’s been absolutely bouncing off the walls since he woke up this morning. I can’t imagine what the heck he’s so excited about.”

         Mathieu began talking as Crissy pulled a chair up to the side of his bed. She put a hand up, laughing. In French, she said, “Slow down, silly. I need to tell your mom, here, what you’re saying.”

         Mathieu licked his lips and nodded.

         “Okay, start again. Slowly.”

         Crissy listened until he paused. She turned to Vanessa. “He said his mama came to him in a dream last night.”

         Vanessa placed a hand on her chest. “Me?” she asked.

         Crissy shook her head. “He said ‘his mama in heaven’.” Turning to Mathieu, Crissy said, “Et elle t’a parler?”

         Translating his response, Crissy repeated, “Yes, my mama spoke to me. She said I shouldn’t be sad that God took my leg away. She said God sometimes has to take things from people on Earth, because that way they learn how strong they really are. She asked me to remember how hard it was when God took her away from me. It’s true! I thought I couldn’t live without my mama. But see? I’m still alive. Mama said God has a special purpose for every person, and when I learn how strong I am, I’ll be ready to fulfill His purpose for me.”

         Such mature words from such a small boy. The hair on Crissy’s arms stood at attention and tears stung her eyes. Mathieu’s message resonated with her, as if it was meant for her. A small flame warmed her deep inside, reaching a wick of hope she’d thought had been forever extinguished. Her hand strayed again to her belly.

         “Tell him how proud I am of him!” Vanessa said, reaching for Mathieu’s hand.

         Crissy related Vanessa’s sentiments. But when Mathieu spoke again, her face fell in shock.

         “What is it? What’s he saying?” Vanessa’s eyes probed Crissy’s face. “My God, Crissy, you’re so pale all of a sudden. Are you all right?”

         Crissy blinked. Mathieu grinned at her, nodding.

         “He…he said,” Crissy began, breaking her gaze with Mathieu and looking up at Vanessa. “His mama had a message for you, too.”

         Vanessa swallowed. “What was it?” she whispered.

         “She said you shouldn’t look for a new nanny, that you should hire me, instead. I can care for Mathieu while teaching him English, and you French.” Crissy’s vision swam. “She said…she said in your home, I would feel safe until my baby is born.”

         Vanessa looked from Mathieu’s smiling face to Crissy, who sat with her hand across her mouth, staring into space. “He had no way of knowing his nanny quit,” Vanessa said slowly. “The day of his accident, Chantal refused to be the one to break the news of his amputation to him. That’s why I urgently needed another French-speaker and found you.” Vanessa leaned forward. “Crissy, are you pregnant?”

         Crissy squeezed her eyes shut, a fat tear dropping from each lid, and nodded.

         Vanessa’s voice was just a hush when she said, “Did you tell him that?”
Eyes still shut, Crissy shook her head no.


         Crissy waved to Mr. Peterman as he pulled away from the curb in front of her house. She pressed the manila envelope with Vanessa’s contract in it under her arm and fished her keys out of her bag. Once inside, she shut the door and leaned back against it. The house was quiet, save for the tick tock of the kitchen clock. Her eyes drifted to the overhead light, shining down on the armchair in the middle of the room.

         Crissy took a deep breath and smiled. Her hand found the wall switch, and she flicked the light off.

~~~~~~~~~


Written for the 2011 Final Round of:

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