The Starfish Sisters: A Novel(90)

And an arm grabs me around the neck, pulling me down.

My body responds before my mind registers what’s happening, and my mind only wants to roar a loud white-noise warning. Danger danger danger danger—

Instinctively, I swing my elbow backward, feeling the bone connect with ribs, and a grunt escapes, then a roar.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he growls, and swings my body down sideways, knocking me off-center so I go down hard on one knee. I bend into the fall, pulling his weight with me, and manage to slip out of his grip. My heart is racing, but my mind is suddenly crystal clear.

Stay aware. Stay alive.

I shove him and run for the door, but he grabs my hair and yanks me down.

My hair.

As I feel my body falling, weightless, about to crash, something in me breaks open. The girl I was, the one who had to suffer the brutal attacks of a man she couldn’t fight back, lands and leaps almost in one gesture, and instead of running away, I whirl to face him. Him, the man from the restaurant, shorter than me, pale and bleary eyed. He smells of sweat and gasoline and his fingernails are grimy.

I bend and hurtle forward, aiming to ram my shoulder into his midsection. Instead, my right shoulder connects with his chin, and I hear a crack before he grabs me and we fall, hard, on the wooden floor. I feel my shoulder slam the table in the foyer, but I scramble to keep him on the floor, trying to elude his hands. He suddenly uses a wrestling move, and before I know what happened, I’m pinned beneath him, his eyes mean and small. He starts to yank at my waistband, greed wetting his lips. “Big movie star,” he sneers. “Still a dumbass fucking girl.”

With a singular cry, I bring my hands up between his arms, flinging his sideways, and as he’s knocked off-balance I scramble diagonally, kicking him when he tries to grab my ankle. My body sends the table to the floor along with the candlestick lamp. Feeling his hands grasping my thighs, I grab the lamp and bring it down on his head with every bit of strength in my body. When he’s still grabbing my body, I swing it again, harder.

He goes still. I scramble from beneath him and he doesn’t move. Blood pours out from a gash across the top of his skull. It is possible he is dead.

Limping, I head into the kitchen, one eye on him. I grab the phone and dash through the back door, running down the stairs and all the way to the beach, where I feel safe enough to stop and call 911. When they’re on their way, I call Joel, who promises to be there in five minutes.

For a moment, my thumb hovers over Phoebe’s number, but I don’t click on it. Instead, I stand in the rain in the dark, shivering.

Long ago, when I was in the mall with Phoebe, I saw that rainbow tennis bracelet and wondered what kind of wife would be awarded such a beautiful prize. It turned out that wife was me, my own gift to myself.

My gift to myself is survival, over and over. I hear Gloria Gaynor in my mind, singing, and it makes me laugh, ever so slightly hysterically. In the darkness, I’m proud of myself. And I’m grateful to Beryl, because without her, I might have survived, but I wouldn’t have thrived.

On the hill, the lights in the studio are blazing, and my heart reaches for Phoebe, even if that relationship is something I need to let go of. I don’t know if the relationship is broken beyond repair, or if we can find a way to build something from the ruins.

Joel comes down the stairs with a heavy blanket. He wraps me in it, and we go back up the stairs to meet emergency services. The man lies in a pool of his own blood, and in the back of my mind I wonder if it’s going to leave a bad stain that will remind me of this forever, but the thought is so callous, I’m slightly shocked.

“Is he dead?” I ask the EMT.

“Nah,” he says. “Way to knock him out, though. He’ll have a nasty headache when he comes to.”

“Badass,” Joel says, trying to lighten the mood.

I give him a wan smile.

“Let’s get a look at that cut,” the other EMT says. “Can you come in the kitchen and let me take a look? It’s dark in here.”

“Cut?” I echo, but follow orders.

When I sit down, she blots my forehead. “You need stitches. Are you comfortable with me doing it, or do you maybe want to call a plastic surgeon?”

“A plastic surgeon? In Blue Cove?” I laugh.

She shrugs. “I’m guessing you care more about this than most people.”

“Sorry. You’re very sensitive, thank you. Can I see it?”

She holds up her phone on selfie camera mode and I see a jagged gash along my hairline. It has soaked the hair around it a pale pink and blood is still leaking out of it. “Wow. I don’t remember getting this.”

“Adrenaline.”

“Go ahead and sew it up,” I say. “It will never show.”

As she deadens the area around the cut, Joel prowls through the house, opening closets and looking in cupboards. I wince at the needle but, in three minutes, can’t feel anything. The guy is carted off to a hospital somewhere, and she’s still stitching. “This is going to be a cool scar, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she agrees with a little laugh. “You earned it.”

In my hand, my phone rings. I tilt the screen to where I can see the caller, and of course it’s Phoebe, because she can probably see the lights from the studio. I let it go to voice mail.