THE DAYS PASSED and got lighter. Sandra didn’t know where she found the strength, but despite the nightmare she had been thrown into, and her new fears, she was on the road to recovery.
During the first weeks after the catastrophe, she had craved solitude and hadn’t received any visitors. In the time after that—after she returned to work—she had refused to be alone and had spent every night at her parents’. As part of her recovery from flu, supposedly. There was nothing they liked better, so they happily let her stay with them for several weeks, just like in the good old days.
Five weeks to the day after the attack, she moved back home, standing on the porch with her bag, putting the key into the lock while a strong breeze whistled around the corners of the house. She felt like she had been away on a long journey, which in a way she had. When she crossed the threshold, she was overcome by a feeling of happiness to be home again, of having a place on earth that was hers alone and where she could be herself without any outside demands.
I need to have this attitude, she told herself—I need to preserve this feeling. I need to take possession of my home and regain mastery of my own life and push the destructive thoughts to one side as best I can.
Once she had unpacked, she prepared a meal, ate, washed the dishes, and put everything away. Then she lit candles and snuggled up under a blanket on the sofa and relaxed—admittedly with the curtains drawn, but she was able to cope with being alone. Then she began to catch up on what she had missed in her distance learning course, working more frenetically than before; she would pass this course and get an intellectually challenging job—that was just how it was. Even if . . . no, thoughts about that would have to wait for tomorrow. The big challenge for the evening was to fall asleep without other adults in the house.
It took several hours, and that was when that dreadful afternoon was at its most prominent place in her thoughts. She lay listening for sounds in the darkness, and heard a multitude. The floorboards creaked, snow tumbled from the roof, and animals ambled around the paddock to the rear of the house. She was waiting for the sound of breaking glass, a lock being broken, or a door forced open. But she didn’t turn on the lights, refusing to give in to the irrational fear that that hateful man had forced upon her. Letting him win would be surrender, and she had no intention of doing that.
WHEN SANDRA WOKE the morning after, it was with satisfaction and a purposefulness that was unusual for her. She hadn’t given way; she had managed to live her daily life on her own and sleep too. She had taken the first step to establishing routines that were a blend of the old and new, and she was surprised at how quickly she had pulled herself out of her wretched situation. She was scarred, upset and anxious, but she had unforeseen strength. She had glimpsed this side of herself a few times before. When she was four years old and alone at home with Dad, who had collapsed unconscious with a ruptured appendix, and she had called for an ambulance. When she had been in the Lucia procession during high school and Lucia’s hair had caught fire; Sandra had been the only one not to take fright and had pulled off her gown and stood there on the stage in front of the whole school in her bra and pants while she extinguished the fire. She was usually mild-mannered—phlegmatic—but when it really mattered, it seemed she had an extra gear, a completely separate superego that stepped in and took command. Something like that was happening now.
Or so she hoped. Because there was something other than fear of a vague external threat to deal with right now. Certain bodily symptoms required her attention, and she was no longer sure she could just dismiss them as irregularity on the grounds of stress and misery.
Sandra took a deep breath as she sat down on the toilet. She was so nervous that her hand shook, although she was surprisingly relaxed given the situation. Things were the way they were, she reasoned, and the important thing was to find out what was going on. Only then could she could think over the possible consequences.
She stopped shaking at the very moment that the blue line appeared in the window on the piece of white plastic. She sighed as she threw the life-changing gadget into the bin, but that was all. She had to keep her head on, be objective and honest with herself and not act rashly.
She made a cup of tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and reviewed all the possible options. She soberly noted that she was almost thirty and wanted a child, that she had never had a long-term relationship and wasn’t becoming a hotter commodity on the market with the passing of time. She noted that the father of the tiny life growing inside her looked good and was self-confident. He was socially able and unafraid, and seemed intelligent, educated, and curious. But he also lacked a sense of what was right and wrong, which was no doubt to do with his upbringing. As a result of that, he committed criminal acts, which was his own choice. He lacked empathy and might even be a psychopath, but those qualities weren’t hereditary.
Sandra questioned what life would be like for a child born as the result of rape and concluded that the things you don’t know don’t hurt you. If the truth ever did come out, then her decision to keep the child in spite of the manner of its conception was proof of how welcome and loved the child was.
Sandra had made up her mind. Amongst the overwhelming joy that flooded through her once the decision was made there was also a dash of schadenfreude. That man was going to be the father of her child: a completely wonderful little person who would take on everything he or she encountered. And he wouldn’t have a clue about it. He would miss out on this wonderful thing, stuck staring at his reflection in the water lily pond until his pathetic, loveless life came to an end, without ever getting to meet his child.
That was how she intended to thank him for the lift.