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Chapter 8
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The reality of freedom did not set in for a long time. Not when she was escorted to the local police station and interviewed alongside an FBI agent. Not when she checked into a local hotel and had a hot shower. Not when she sat on the bed and watched BBC with the running headline: "MERCENARY CORP BUSTED. KILLINGS TIED TO INTL CRIMES. AMERICAN HOSTAGE FREED." Her headshot once again flashed on screens, along with Maximus' and a few others from the complex that had died earlier. It was the biggest news of the day.
Yet, Carly felt nothing. The next morning, a female FBI agent came to interview her. They had breakfast downstairs. It was a luxurious continental breakfast.
She felt nothing when she repeated to the agent, "Yes, I was imprisoned. They had kidnapped me. No, they didn't torture me. No, I wasn't raped. Yes, I was treated reasonably well, but I had no access to the outside world. Yes, I know person X and Y, he was there from month A to B. Yes, this picture you are showing me is the person I identify as George. Yes, Maximus was the one who shot XXX outside his mansion that night. No, I don't know the name of George's accountant, he was off site and was only referred to as the numbers guy."
She did hours of interview. Repeated the same thing so many times she wondered what the point was. It was all recorded, right? There was always a female FBI agent present and they were extremely polite and caring.
After three days of exhaustive interview, she was told they were done with her part of the investigation. Now the female FBI agent brought up therapy and counseling. "We will refer you to see professional therapist and counselors when you are back in California. We understand how traumatic this experience must be to you and we will do anything to help you. Please take care of yourself. And don't hesitate to contact us if you can recall any information about the organization."
It was at that moment she struck up the courage to ask, "Can I ask a question?"
"Yes, of course."
"One of the guys we've discussed...this guy, Eli...what happened to him?"
She had told them everything except two things: Eli killing Antoine, and having slept with Eli.
The female agent responded with an understanding warmth, "I appreciate you caring about individuals, Miss Morris, that is very admirable of you. But that is not an information I can give you."
"Do you know if he's alive or dead?"
"I cannot give you that information." The female agent made it clear that was that.
He's probably dead.
She decided to put him out of her mind. He was not paramount to her life anymore. She was free now.
There was a knock at her hotel room door. She opened to find two tear-strewn faces belonging to those of her parents. She was immediately embraced, so tight she could not breathe, so hard she could not fall, for she would have fallen to the ground and crumbled into pieces, if they had not locked her in their tight hug. They exchanged words of sorrow and joy. They showered her with love that had been built up over the months during her disappearance with nowhere to release, now pouring out all at once and blissfully drowning her. She was safe and back in the arms of her family.
They sat on the bed and talked. They ate downstairs and talked. She caught up on her siblings' activities and found things to be more or less the same. Things don't change that much outside in just a few months. Lydia dyed her hair a different color. Mary got accepted to college. Lyon was doing well as a journalist in Chicago. Her dog missed her. Her horse missed her. Veronica felt extremely guilty about her abduction and was flying in the next day.
They were very careful not to ask her about what happened to her during her imprisonment. In fact, so deliberately careful that she thought it was too obvious and a little hurtful.
"It's okay if you ask me about what happened when I was there." She told them the following morning over breakfast, "I'm strong enough to handle it and it's important for my recovery."
They were hesitant but said, "Sweetie, you are so brave! Take it easy, take it slow. We have all the time in the world when we get home."
They flew home together unceremoniously. Her siblings were sweet in welcoming her back. There were more tears and hugs of joy. They protected her from media and excessive visits. She stayed in their beautiful vineyard surrounded by serene views of grapevines and the light dust misting the dry air. The last of summer's heat receded as fall came, though in Sonoma County, the seasons were mild and winter was never cold.
She would have nightmares, as the therapist had warned her. She would wake up in the middle of night, her body frozen with fear. It would take her a while to recognize that she was not in her prison room anymore but the room she had grown up in all her life. A room with beautiful dark wooden floors, a large plush bed, pictures on the wall of her throughout the ages, memorabilia from school years. She'd sit there in the dark and listen. There would be no sound but the whistling of leaves outside the window and faint dog bark in the distance. She would dream of being assaulted again. Memories of being smashed against the shower wall, the searing pain and taste of blood in her mouth, her limbs being yanked violently like she was nothing of value.
Breathe, breathe.
The therapist taught her.
Don't run from it. Let it go through you. Face it, one bit by bit.
She would be living with PTSD for a long, long time. The nightmares were hers and hers only.
Or was it?
It took a while for her to come out of her cocoon to see how the incident had affected her family as well. They had become excessively protective of her. They avoided talking about any violent news in her presence. They tried to get her mind on everything else that was peaceful and joyful in the world. They pushed her to go back into horse riding because they heard it was rehabilitative - that part they weren't wrong with. She re-bonded with her horse and truly enjoyed long, solitary ride along the countryside. She would walk along the road on her horse, rising high above a sea of ripening Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir. Harvest season was upon them and the tourists were pouring in from the bay area and all over the country. She'd see traffic build up on weekends, long black limousines carrying crowds of beautifully dressed people, their cheeks rosy from tastings. Bachelor parties, weekend getaways, wedding receptions. Sonoma county is perpetually a happy place. Only the happiest of people come here and they consume the wine and the cheese and the merriment.
Ah, the happiness. The true happiness these people don't realize they possess,
she thought as she strode down the road on her horse,
is their freedom
.
Only when it's taken from you do you realize nothing else in the world matters.
So it could be said that her family didn't understand her. Any description of her imprisonment would only cause them to shriek and gasp with "you are so brave, my love!" How could she express the nuance, of, say, how she felt about Maximus? How could she describe Maximus truthfully, as a human being who killed, but also used his prize money to order her underwear and books from Amazon? The sadness she felt when he died. How could she describe them when she didn't even know how to process it herself?
She concluded it was not possible. Even her therapist wouldn't understand. She would sit on her chair and listen to Carly, nod, and say things Freudian like.
"This is a normal feeling to have" was the most common thing she would say when Carly expressed conflicting thoughts about her abduction.
Yeah, but you don't really get it. You don't.
To get it, you have to be there. But you weren't.
But she didn't say that out loud, because that would be rude.
Harvest season came and it was busy time at the vineyard. She appreciated the influx of tourists as this put her mind off her troubled past.
Then one day, in the middle of a warm fall afternoon, as she was helping examining the cellar and taking notes of their stock, it struck her.
- He had told her to stay in the room the few days before.
Why?
Did he know they were coming?
Why would he?
One possible explanation came to her mind:
