The Deal

Nine-Bernadette

Thabo comes through the sliding door and sprints towards me as if I've awoken from another coma. As though reading my mind, he grabs his phone to reject the call. I sigh silently. Thank heavens the incessant music has stopped. Never would I have thought Shakira's vocals would cause me to have internal bleeding from the ears.

"How are you feeling, Nettie?" Thabo asks, taking his seat beside me.

"My head hurts," I reply, fighting to sit upright, but the pain in my head keeps throbbing. I rub my fingers over the wound but realize it's already been bandaged.

"Be calm, okay? Just lie down and rest. You took a bad bump."

I swallow. "How bad?"

Thabo sighs. "Last night, when you didn't come home early, I called my friend in the department, Officer Baduza. You remember him?"

He pauses, expecting an answer he knows I can't give. "Never mind. He went around half the town searching. Luckily, he found you. But you were lying there unconscious next to some barbershop. We brought you to this clinic as soon as possible. Some attacker clogged you in the head, then bailed."

I try to dig deep and invoke the image of me strolling down the street, but it's all a huge blur. Nothing comes to mind. It's like a huge gaping wound has been torn open in my head.

"I called Yvonne to alert her about this. She's postponing today's shoot. Is it hard for you when you try to remember past events? Does your headache as you do?"

I take in the soft gaze of his humble hazel eyes and relax. "No, it doesn't. But I...." Out of the bloom, the memory flashes. Yvonne delivered the bad news that she wanted me replaced from South Africa's first popular sitcom because my acting talent had suddenly gone from Oscar-worthy to zero, and me being a sloppy co-star to work with. The words stung me like a bitch, no matter how sugar-coated my best friend made them.

"Nettie, take your time. Can you remember what your attacker looked like? What he sounded like?"

I keep scanning through the shattered pieces and blurred bits of memory. The dark alleyway. The silent footsteps behind. His hulking strength, pressing his weight down on me. My body scrubbing the hard pavement. His deep, killer voice when he uttered the words; "I'll make sure you forget who you are."

"Bill," I mutter; it was so quiet I bet Thabo didn't hear.

"Bill?" Thabo questions.

"It was a man....in a mask. I think he injected me with something. It paralyzed me."

"Jesus." Thabo rubs his nose, hunching his shoulders as he leans forward.

"I didn't recognize his voice. It didn't trigger any memory. But I could tell he was furious. He said he hated me, and I believed it, Thabo. I could feel he had a lot of pent-up hatred geared toward me. It's strange and scary." My lower lip trembles and my eyes go watery. "I was so scared, Thabo. What if it was Bill?"

He wraps both palms around my hand and places a gentle kiss on my forehead. "First thing I do when we leave, I'm going to hire the best private investigator as soon as possible." His furrowed brows and dark snare give me some hope. "I don't give a damn about his prize. I'll pay for every single worth of his time as long as he works friggin' hard to find this son of a bitch. Then we're going to have to establish some new rules. When you go out late at night, you inform me. Then I'll tell Officer Baduza to keep an eye out for you. Then if it gets late—"

"What? I need a curfew now?" I scoff, rolling my eyes. "As long as we get this PI to find out about Bill, there's no use for me running back home before it's past my bedtime. I don't need my freedom limited again."

Thabo lifts his right brow. "Why? Are you saying I don't give you enough space?"

"No. That's not what I mean. I just don't want you to get overprotective, alright?" I know I sound harsh, but I will never let someone try to control me. It's the last thing I need.

"I understand. But you need security." He gets up and paces about, running his hand through his short hair. "I could have got you a bodyguard by the time you completed shooting the show's first season. We just couldn't afford it back then. Things would have been friggin' easier now and Bill wouldn't have...."

He pauses, twisting his lips and shaking his head.

"Wouldn't have what? Thabo, say it."

"We'll save this topic for another time. I just want you to understand letting Officer Baduza keep an eye out for you is necessary. What if the paparazzi found you unconscious? The media would have this personal drama in the headlines. The next thing you know, Bill becomes friggin' agitated or he might get excited. Your life would be at stake."

The voice of the masked man in my head disrupts my husband's words. The memory is clear. I'll destroy every memory you have...

"Nettie, are you listening?"

I lift my gaze to Thabo. "He said he'll destroy every memory I have left. It's like he knows I'm trying to remember the past events of my life and career. He won't allow it, which means he obviously played a role in the car crash. Bill probably wants to watch me suffer, knowing I will never get to remember the actress I used to be. He wants to make me forget. That's all he wants, right?"

Thabo folds his arms, cocking his head. "Bill's getting off on this. You being scared is giving him the power. He may enjoy frightening you, but his main goal here is to make sure you never get back the life you once had. He's also very vengeful."

"What did I do to Bill? Did I offend him? Did I say something about him on a live show? I hope I didn't sabotage his life. I was an alcoholic before the crash. What if I—"

"Do you remember your early career in the nineties Soapy? The show called Class?"

"Not really. But my co-stars and Yvonne have been talking about it. They said I used to be a sex symbol in my twenties." It then dawns on me a little.

Thabo nods. "It was a show you regretted being a part of. You were twenty-one when you played Aneska. The main protagonist, who happened to be a seventeen-year-old. Your father, Moses Amara, was the showrunner and director. When he made you play the character he created, you believed your father wanted to boost your career, but he used your naivety to trick you. He persuaded you to be naked on set, just to appeal to some co-stars and crew. During filming, both on and off set, he touched you inappropriately. You wanted to quit the show so badly, but he didn't allow that. He locked you in his house for a whole year and forced you to pretend to be Aneska while he continued to sexually assault you."

I swallow a lump in my throat. The imagery appears to me. Being tied to a bed, struggling to be free. A faceless man approaches my bedside, a toothy smile igniting his blurry face as he reaches his large hands toward my bare, tied-up legs.

I wobble my head to snap out of the painful memory. "Yeah, it's coming to me. It's coming back to me."

"Yes. When you went public with this story on several talk shows, it went viral. You went on many talk shows to talk about your dreadful experiences with Moses during filming and while you were held captive. Everyone was friggin' horrified and disgusted. But not Bill. Your role as Aneska was what created his dark fantasies. It went from a simple crush to a complete obsession. He envied Moses for what he'd done to you. So, there was a time he wanted to finish what Moses started, but, somehow, he changed his mind and wanted a chance to communicate with you. So, he hoarded our house with letters, proposing to "Aneska." The love of his life."

"The letters. Do we still have them? I want to see them now."