“Wake up, Les,” Hunter whispered gently shaking her shoulders. “You’ve been having some kind of dream.”

  Opening her eyes, Leslie reached out and grabbed Hunter, pulling into his arms, hugging him like she had never hugged anyone before. Crying, she let her tears run down her face and on to his shoulder, her sobs, shaking both their bodies.

  “Hunter,” she pleaded.

  “Yes,” he softly answered.

  “Love me,” she begged.

  “I do,” he assured her.

  “No, not that,” she answered, wiping her eyes, and then staring into his. “I want you to make love to me.”

  Looking at her for a moment, Hunter released her, and eased back against a chair. Staring into the flames, he took a deep breath and shook his head.

  “Why not,” Leslie demanded. “Am I that horrible to look at?”

  “It’s not that, Leslie,” he quietly answered.

  “Sure, it’s not that,” she fired back as she quickly unbuttoned her blouse. “If I had given you this chance in high school, you would have ripped my clothes off before I could have changed my mind. But now, now that my face has been ruined, you’re not interested. I sicken you, don’t I?”

  Turning his eyes back to the fire, Hunter didn’t answer.

  “Boy, that’s great,” Leslie lashed out. “I put my faith in you. I think that you’re interested in me as a person, but now I find that I’m just another charity case. You took me on to try to make me feel good about myself, to fix my life, and then you were going to walk away. You don’t love me. If you did, you’d make love to me. Can’t you even look past my face? My body is still to die for!”

  Standing up and marching across the room, Leslie flipped each of the cabin’s lights off. The room was now dark except for the uneven glow of the flickering flames.

  “OK, Hunter,” Leslie snarled, “the lights are off. You can’t see my face. You can pretend that I looked the way I did a few months ago. So, with that thought in mind and no lights on to prove it a lie, I shouldn’t turn your stomach. You should be able to kiss me and not get sick.”

  Though he looked toward her, he still didn’t move.

  Now angry and embarrassed, she flew across the room, stood over him and screamed, “Why don’t you say it? Why don’t you just say it? I’m a freak, an ugly, scarred freak. Why don’t you just admit that you couldn’t love me if I was the last woman on earth? You couldn’t touch me if I stripped naked and wore a mask over my hideous face. I’m not a woman; I’m a monster! And that’s what I’ll always be. Nothing will change that, not now and not ten years from now.”

  Her anger expelled, Leslie turned and ran out the door, across the grass and to the dock. There, leaning against the railing, she cried out, “It just isn’t fair. I hate you, God. You made me unlovable. You made me a freak! Why couldn’t you have just let me die?”

  Consumed by her own pain, thinking she was alone and forgotten, she fell to her knees wishing she had a gun she could put to her head and end her suffering. A few seconds later, two strong arms lifted her upright and a man’s voice whispered into her right ear. “Les, you’re not a freak. I’m proud to be with you, so proud that I want you to go to church with me tomorrow morning.”

  Turning to face him, the woman shook her head, and then, proving just how deeply she had been hurt, snapped, “Oh, that proves it. You’ll take me to church then everyone can see what a wonderful person you are for helping the poor woman. You’ll come off like a saint and I’ll look just like what I am, a charity case … what did we call it in high school … missionary dating. Well, I may be the charity case, but I’m not going to let you use me to look like a saint. Not now and not ever.”

  “That’s not it,” Hunter quietly assured her. “I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my whole life. The problem is, I’m not going to live a lie by letting you live one.”

  “And just what does that mean?” she demanded.

  Looking out at the water, the man shook his head, obviously struggling to find a way to gently answer her. After seemingly examining every inch of the lake’s surface he finally spoke. “I love a woman that you don’t even know. You look in the mirror, and you see someone who is ruined. You see a woman whose public life is over. You see someone without value or worth. I look at you and see someone who has so much to give. I see hope, and you see hopelessness. I see light, and you see darkness.”

  As she leaned against the dock’s railing, she continued to glare; listening but not accepting what he was saying. What she wanted him to admit was that he saw her the way she saw herself. She’d accept nothing else.

  “Leslie,” he voice remained soft and kind, “I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to help you, that is true. But in the process, I have found that I’ve not helped you at all. You’re still too caught up in what the world thinks about the way you look to realize that—as trite as this may sound—beauty is only skin deep. I thought I could get you to realize that, but I couldn’t in high school and I can’t now.

  “The only person who can reveal to you who you really are is probably you. As long as you look in the mirror and see someone who is worthless then that is what you are going to be. And I don’t go to bed with anyone who is worthless. I’m better than that and if you had any kind of feeling of self-worth, you wouldn’t demand that I do that or anything else to prove my love for you.”

  “Are you finished?” Leslie bitterly bellowed as she buttoned her blouse.

  “I guess so,” Hunter answered.

  “Then take me home!” she demanded.

  Neither of them spoke on the forty-minute drive back to Springfield. During that seemingly endless trip, Leslie was fighting a mental war. One side of her brain demanded she consider what Hunter had said and the other demanded she accept herself at face value. As she grew closer to home, that uglier side was winning the battle.

  As Hunter pulled into the driveway, he noted that one of the family cars was gone. “Where are your folks?”

  Showing no emotion, Leslie answered, “Out of town. They’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “Are you going to be all right by yourself?” Hunter asked.

  “I’m a big girl,” she shot back, “I lived alone in New York, remember?”

  “At least let me walk you in and make sure everything is all right.”

  “Forget it, Hunter. I can manage.”

  Jumping out, she slammed the passenger door with all of her might, stormed across the front yard, unlocked the door, and tossed it open. Not bothering to even glance over her shoulder, she entered the house and threw the door shut behind her. Not stopping to turn on a light, she ran upstairs to her room, pitched her purse and bag into a corner and collapsed on her bed. As she lay there staring at the ceiling, she heard Hunter’s Jeep back out of the driveway and fade away into the night.

  Though she didn’t want to, it was time to let go of the emotions she had been bottling up for months. Her heart, suddenly overcome with overwhelming pain, pushed her body to begin to shake with deep, mourning sobs. Forcing herself to her feet, she crossed the room to her dressing table, took a long look at her mirror, and then, grabbing an old jewelry box, heaved it into the middle of her reflection.

  She moved to the window and looked down at the scene beneath her. A blue pickup pulled up to the curb just in front of the Rhoads’s home and, after letting the motor idle for a moment, the driver turned off the ignition, and lit a cigarette.

  Who was he? Why was he here now? Leslie continued to study the truck for another five minutes, then, after tossing the cigarette butt out the window, the driver restarted the vehicle and rumbled off into the night.

  49

  After the truck disappeared around the block, Leslie turned her attention back to her room. Flipping on a bedside table lamp, she examined the remnants of what had been her dresser mirror. The broken glass brought a deep sense of satisfaction. She’d killed the ugly image that was her face for the moment. But just killing it once didn’t satisfy her. She needed more.

  She marched from her room, down the steps, and to her parents’ downstairs bathroom. Flipping the switch to bring some illumination, she stepped in front of the sink. There was that face again, staring back at her from another mirror. She frowned and breathed, “I hate you,” before opening the medicine cabinet. Scanning the shelves, she finally discovered the object of her search in the middle of the third one. Grabbing a half-full bottle of pills, she hurriedly left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. Beside the sink was a glass she’d used earlier in the day, she filled it with tap water and then walked to the den. Turning the television on, she switched channels until she discovered an old horror movie, and tumbled into a chair.

  “Well, Mother,” she said to no one as she spilled a handful of pills into her palm, “I finally owe you one.”

  In this case, she did. Flo had been employing prescription sleeping pills for decades. Leslie had always believed it was because, on dark and sleepless nights, her mother couldn’t confront just how sad and bitter a person she was. Now, the route of escape for Flo offered the promise of an even more fulfilling and lasting one for her daughter.

  Dropping the empty bottle to the floor, Leslie looked at the red and blue pills filling her right hand. They had peace written all over them. This was what she needed. Sleep! The kind that never ended!

  No reason to take them all at once; she had all night long to accomplish her mission. Picking one of the tablets out of her right hand with her left, she popped it into her mouth and chased it down with a sip of water.

  One down! The second one followed! Then the third! Five minutes later, she polished off the fifteenth pill. Now it was time to lean back in the chair and wait.

  How long would it take? Ten minutes? Maybe longer? Sitting there staring at the wall and listening to the clock tick was torture. She had to do something until she finally drifted off into that longest night.

  Rummaging through an end table’s drawer, she discovered an old photo album. No better way to make her exit than by reliving a few old memories. Flipping on a lamp, she began to slowly scan the pages. As she did, the past came alive. For the next five minutes, she relived birthdays, proms, vacations, and parties, and with each of them came the special warm feelings that had been a part of the events. She smiled, up until meeting that broken bottle, it had been a pretty good life.

  Slamming the book closed, she tossed it down to the floor and wandered over to her father’s desk. There, amid a stack of unopened junk mail, she found a copy of Fashion and Style. Leslie studied the face on the cover, carefully searching the image for even the slightest flaw, but she found none. Proudly, she remembered how Carlee had bragged that this was one session where there would be no touch-ups and she had been right. That cover had gone to the printer’s, just like the day it was shot. Yes, she once had the perfect face.

  Holding the magazine to her chest, she wandered into the living room. After turning on the overhead light, she curled up at the end the couch to once again take in her best and brightest moment. Hunter Jefferson would have jumped at the chance to take this woman to bed. Tracing her scars with her fingers, she fought back tears. Who could blame him for rejecting her? Leslie certainly wouldn’t have wanted to make love to some guy who looked like his face had been assembled by a demented child.

  Glancing back to the cover, she shook her head, and for the first time since she had taken the pills, the rush was gone and an overwhelming sense of sadness took root in her heart. Why hadn’t she run back into Hunter two years ago? He wouldn’t have been doing charity work by taking her out. She would have been a woman that he could not only have cared about, but one that he could have loved—really loved. It wasn’t fair, not for him and certainly not for Leslie.

  Sitting up, she gently placed the magazine on the coffee table, as she did, she noted a new issue of Fashion and Style. She was shocked. Wendy Wright’s face was staring back at her. She was the new cover girl!

  Pulling the cover to the light, Leslie frowned. Wendy looked incredible. Speaking directly to the magazine she said, “Boy they must have done a major touch-up job on this picture for her to come out looking like this!”

  Opening the magazine she read the short article about the cover girl. It said that Wendy was not just the face of modern style. She was the epitome of beauty. As she turned back to the cover, it hit her. Her funeral! It would take place in the next few days. It would be her last appearance. Jumping up from the couch, she ran back into her father’s office. Finding a pen and paper in a drawer, she hurriedly scrawled out, “I want my casket to be closed. Under no circumstances, let anyone see my face.”

  A great sense of relief flowed through her body as she folded the note, put her parents’ names on the outside and placed it on a table in the entry hall. That should take care of it. Her life was in order. The last detail had been covered.

  A veil of grogginess was beginning to invade the corners of her mind. She could sense the pills really starting to work their magic. Turning, she steadied herself and began to slowly retrace her steps back to the den.

  When these things hit, they hit hard!

  The room was suddenly floating. Leslie was so light-headed she could barely balance. Each step down the long hall was a monumental struggle. As she arrived at her final destination she heard something familiar, but it sounded so far away. What was it? The phone! Who’d call at this time of night?

  Driven by habit, she struggled toward the place where the desk phone rested. Yet, even though it was only a few steps away, that journey seemed to take years. Her mind now shrouded in a deep fog, her legs unsteady, she wobbled forward toward her father’s desk. In an effort to focus, she began to talk to herself.

  “Got to make it to the chair,” she whispered as she pushed a foot forward. “I’ve got to make it …” Before she could finish the sentence, her body crashed to the floor.

  “So, this is how it is going to end,” she sighed.

  Her thought pattern had now slowed to a crawl, but there was a part of her that wasn’t ready to give up without knowing who was on the other end of that call. She pushed herself to turn over. Resting on her back she stared at the spinning ceiling.

  You should have loved me. What was your name? Oh, yeah, Hunter. If you had really loved me, this wouldn’t have happened.

  Closing her eyes she began to picture her mother trying to explain this event to the neighbors. Flo would come up with some way to put the blame on someone else. She’d probably even try to find someone to sue. Maybe the makers of those wonderful sleeping pills!

  An overpowering urge to relax flowed through her body and she let herself slip into another world, one filled with darkness and without mirrors. She eagerly reached out for the place where time never moved.

  50

  Don’t kill me. You never gave me a chance to live, and now, just when I have an opportunity to see what kind of potential I had, you’re cheating me out of my chance to discover it. You’re selfish and lazy, Leslie Rhoads. If it is not easy, not perfect, you don’t do it. You give up when there’s work involved.”

  “Who are you?” Leslie’s confused mind asked.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” the voice answered. “I’m the part of you that never lived because you never matured or grew enough to let me live. I was the part that wanted to reach out to people, the part that didn’t care if my makeup ran or my hair was out of place. I was the part of you Hunter saw, and I was the part of you that you never saw.”

  Must be the drugs! They were now playing with her mind. They were even creating voices in her head. Yeah, it was the drugs. Maybe if she just thought about something else, they’d go away. But the voice came back, even louder and more demanding than before.

  “When you looked in the mirror, I was there both before and after the attack, but you didn’t know me. I was the depth that you never discovered. I’m the part of you who still wants to live. Save me. Get to your feet and make a call. Get me some help. Don’t let me die.”

  Forcing her eyes open, Leslie struggled to regain at least a partial sense of her surroundings, but the room was spinning too fast and her body was too limp for her to summon any control. So she allowed the dark cloud to once more envelop her, and as it did, she heard it again! From what seemed like a long distance away there was the ringing of the phone. Turning her head toward the sound, she spied the phone wire just two feet to her left. If she could just reach it, she could pull the phone off the desk and end that annoying sound forever.

  Focusing all of her energy on just moving her left arm, she inched her hand forward until she was able to touch the cord. Stopping for a moment to concentrate even harder, she wrapped her fingers around it and jerked. She then waited for the phone to fall off the desk and onto the floor. But strangely it didn’t.

  Turning her face back toward the top of the desk, she became aware of someone standing directly over her. In his hand, he held the still ringing phone. She couldn’t see his face, hidden by the room’s shadows, but she had no problem hearing his voice.

  “Sorry, Sweetheart, but this is one caller that will have to get back with you later—much later.”

  Setting the phone back on the desk, the man ambled across the room, picked up the empty pill bottle in a gloved hand, studied the label, tossed it back down on the carpet, and walked back to Leslie.

  “I appreciate you making this so easy,” he laughed.

  Even though she could no longer see anything except vague images, and even though her thought pattern had almost completely shut down, Leslie still recognized the voice. This was the man who had attacked her—the man from the car and the alley. The laugh was the same.

  A sudden, deep desire to live rushed through her addled mind. She didn’t want him to finish what he’d started in that damp alley. She couldn’t bear the thought that the last person to see her alive would be the man who made her into a freak.