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Trader Joe's and Aldi have a certain sentimentality to them. So do Journey and Bryan Adams. Certain landmarks in Central Park: that bridge we walked on during the wedding, that gazebo he proposed in when it was raining, that archway hung with vines we walked through. I remember that.
I also remember being on that surgical slab, still pregnant with Tom's child, pain in my spine from the injections. Those injections were a lot like the injection of the truth serum in my right thigh from that man. I saw him in the surgical chamber. I later saw him as my father when I had a different name. I was no longer Victoria. Tori for short.
I saw our daughter later as my father's secretary. I was glad to know she was okay, not glad to know she wasn't a Guimond. How'd she end up a McCormick? Her name should have been Katherine Emma Giuseppi Guimond, but it wasn't.
I often wonder why I came back. He's a changer (otherwise known as a shapeshifter). Rejected me, then remarried as Tom. Rejected me as Johnny. Kept me as a just-in-case to another girl as Iven. I take a back seat to no one.
I've seen that my Emma is safe and taught her all she needs to know. She didn't waste my time. But he did.
I used to call him HiFi, cinnamon coffee and pillow. Now I can't trust him with my heart. Why did I come back?
Why did I go through all that grueling pain to bring myself back if he was just going to reject me?
"Angel of the Morning" (Rush), I used to have play each morning to wake me up. "Leather and Lace" (Nicks and Henley) was our wedding song. "Honey" (Goldsboro) was the song he played just after he thought I'd died. I was the cherub. I am his guardian.
I remember his sky-blue eyes turning deep green as we got married. That's his true eye color.
The other song that I would have chosen for our wedding song would have been Rachmaninov's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini." Not enough proof? Give it time.
I grow sentimental from salame and cappuccinos. Everybody thought I'd have a boy when I was pregnant because I kept craving pickles.
I still remember the recipe to my goat cheese salad that I made on the first night we had dinner at his parents' home: goat cheese, oregano, Granny Smith apple, romaine lettuce, onion, tomato, apple cider vinegar, olive oil.
I used to make him six pieces of bacon for breakfast. He'd take three. I'd eat the other three. We first lived in Manhattan, then once we were married we moved to Virginia.
We had two cats: Mr. Murphy and Princess. Mr. Murphy had always been his, and Princess we got together. Mr. Murphy was gray with black stripes and Princess was red and white.
My then birthday was on November eleventh. It is now November fourth.
I now look like a thinner Aryan version of my then self.
My name then was Victoria Florence Giuseppi Guimond. I doubt that It will ever be Guimond again. I now wait to die, going through the motions without hope for the future.
I feel like the world owes me for looking on while I was kidnapped out of that life and forced to bring myself into this one. It did nothing. He was wearing his Flash shirt and his navy blue snowflake boxers that night. I was kidnapped in the wee hours of May twenty-first, nineteen eighty-six.
I managed to bring myself back in the wee hours of November fourth, nineteen eighty-six.
One last thing: "Bette Davis Eyes" (Karnes) and "These Dreams" (Heart) were the songs I played the night I was kidnapped.