by A B Whelan
Her face was wrapped in a concerned expression as she handed me a mug of steaming black coffee.
I assured her that I wasn’t raped, thus there was no need for us to call the police. I told her it was only an experiment for a case I’d been working on.
I lit a cigarette at the open window and offered one to Olivia. She wasn’t a smoker, but she was always good company and took one anyway. “I know you’re busy, and I appreciate that you came by to help me out. Can you imagine my mother finding me like that?” I laughed, because to be honest, the entire situation was comical. Olivia didn’t find any humor in it.
“You should be more careful with who you let into your home.” She didn’t bring up my past mistakes, and I was grateful for that. That’s why I prefer friends over family. You get to choose your friends, but you are stuck with your judgmental family.
My chilled fingers wrapped around the coffee mug, and I found myself lost in Olivia’s soothing company, her trustworthy eyes. Maybe because I needed a friend—or because I didn’t want to be alone, I don’t know—I told her everything about Skyler, patient-doctor confidentiality flying right out of the window. After listening to the story with her palpable and undivided focus, Olivia took my mug and washed it out in the sink with her back to me in eerie silence.
“So? What do you think?”
“I think you need to tell this girl to go to the police.” She confirmed what I’d been mulling over all day long.
“Well, I’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
After finishing our coffee, Olivia went back to work, leaving me restless and edgy. I knew what I was supposed to do to feel better: exercise, eat healthy, get plenty of sleep, and open my heart for love. But why was it so hard for me to do the right thing?
That night, the lights of the high-rise buildings that encircle MacArthur Park glowed with brilliant colors on the surface of the pond. A beautiful sight in a dangerous park. A defenseless young woman like myself had no business being there after sunset, yet there I was.
MacArthur Park in the dark is mesmerizing, but I didn’t drive across town to gaze upon beautiful things. My destination lay in the darkness.
I turned the music up louder and adjusted the arm strap with my iPhone. Blocking out reality gave me a sense of safety. The air was wet and cool. We hadn’t seen this much rain in years. Bundled up in my favorite hoodie, I ran faster than usual, feeling the impact in my hips and thighs. Damn, I’m turning too old too soon.
The pain in my wrists and ankles kept the memory of my failed date alive. I’d have to wear long-sleeved tops and pants to conceal my bruises.
Battling down the disgust I felt inside, I disappeared under the overpass to a place that shouldn’t have been so familiar but was. Nearly out of breath, I spotted the man I was anxious to see. As I approached him, I pulled back the hood from my head and began to walk. He must have known it was me or recognized my gait, because without any precaution he put his hand into his pocket.
“You need to slow down, girl,” he warned, shaking his head.
“Mind your own business, Omar,” I grunted back, ripping the package out of his hand. He took the roll of cash from me and kissed it.
“Pleasure doing business with you.” He bowed to me in a way I’d consider mocking in any other circumstance. He spun on his heels like a dancer and strutted away into the veil of darkness.
I opened the small bag and scooped out a small amount with the underside of my pinkie nail. Then another one.
I half-ran, half-stumbled back to my car. Once the engine turned over, I locked the doors and leaned my head back. I dozed off in the warmth of the heater, and I have no memory of the rest of the night or how I got home.
That was last night.
The clock chimes noon as I run out of patience. As hard as it is to admit, I must face the truth that Skyler won’t be coming for her second meeting with me. I reach for my cell phone and call Peter. I tell him his cousin missed our second appointment and that I’m very worried about her. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since yesterday either.
The pit in my stomach grows larger.
Without much prompting, Peter offers to call all the burner phones and friends’ numbers she has given him over the past year.
As I wait, I Google a half dozen breaking news reports online about missing girls and dead bodies found in the greater Los Angeles area. The one that stands out in the sea of heinous crimes is a serial killer the media is calling the “Fifty Shades Killer.” I dig into the details and learn that the police are looking for an unidentified male or males who have so far killed six women. Since it is an ongoing investigation going back six years, most of the article is filled with speculation and hype from different writers. Nothing I find suggests that this perpetrator is Skyler’s kidnapper, but my instinct suggests otherwise.
When I notice Peter’s caller ID on my phone, my heart starts beating with fear. He hasn’t been able to contact Skyler or locate her. His failure leaves me with one option: I need to look for this girl myself before it’s too late. I fear that she may have done away with herself to escape the emotional pressure.
Peter gives me the address to a local hangout with sketchy people—his words—that Skyler found on Craigslist when she was looking for a room to rent in L.A. He offers to tag along, but I politely decline, unsure about his true intentions. His worry about my safety is touching, but I prefer Olivia as my Dr. Watson. Although, I have no problem going at it alone. Those who live in the dark are not afraid of it.
Before I hang up the phone, Peter mentions the name of a local coffee shop where Skyler met him a few times and her favorite Starbucks location. I scribble down everything on a piece of paper and promise to call him as soon as I have something.
My next call with Olivia lifts my spirits. She needs to move around a few appointments to free up her afternoon, but she is willing to do so. I’m ogling the Google Street View of Skyler’s crib when Olivia’s text comes in, confirming that she can meet me at two o’clock this afternoon.
I skip lunch to visit a friend of mine from grad school before I meet up with Olivia. Janet and I haven’t kept in touch much lately, but I did offer her my best wishes when she shared the news about her job on Facebook as the newest team member at Victim Services. I wondered what happened to her plans to help prisoners find the beauty in life.
The commercial-gray carpeted pathway leads me to her office. From this side of the room, I take in a wide view of the sea of social workers hunched over case files or with eyes glued to computer screens. The scent of depression and disappointment hangs in the air. One whiff of it and I feel as if all the happiness has gone from the world. On the opposite side, filing cabinets conceal the walls from floor to ceiling, no doubt safeguarding thousands of domestic abuse case files. The forgotten victims’ silent screams hang over me like a bad conscience.
The sunlight, through a thin layer of clouds, meekly reaches the desks. Reading lamps on each employee’s workstation cast a depressing yellow-tinted pool of light onto their papers. If not for my family’s support and ability to finance my own practice, I’d probably be working right here among these people. On second thought, without my family’s influence, I wouldn’t be a psychologist at all.
I reach the slightly open door with the nameplate reading Dr. Janet McNamara—Victim Services. I lightly rap on the hollow wooden door and see a pantsuit-clad woman eating a sandwich at her desk.
“Janet,” I call out to her. She drops her sandwich into the plastic container—homemade lunch—and gapes at me. The blinds on the window are open behind her, allowing me a pleasant view of the green scenery outside. The walls in her office are overwhelmed with awareness posters, warnings, newsletters, and pictures of wilderness that add a touch of humanity to the office.
“Ashley Hayes, what brings you to this part of town?” she asks in a tone that lacks warmth or kindness.
I swallow my pride and step closer to her messy desk: framed pict
ures of her family and dog, bottles of hand lotion and hand sanitizer, a colorful crystal humming bird, a box of tissues, her lunch, a bottle of water. From this angle, I see dozens of pink Post-it notes framing her computer screen. A rush of envy fills me up. I have only one patient, and even she doesn’t return.
“I see the county is treating you well,” I say, offering a big smile and an appreciative nod. “I love your office.”
She takes a sip of her water. “Yeah, it could be worse.” She remains seated but motions for me to come in. “What can I do for you?” Straight to the point. I like that. Pleasantries are tools to get to know one another. We are already past that.
“I need your advice,” I say, handing her my file on Skyler, so she can see that my patient is legit. I’m not usually one to ask for help or favors, so my statement catches her off guard. Janet straightens up, and her face takes on a more vivid and bright color.
She takes the folder from my hand and opens it up.
“I have a patient who was sexually assaulted,” I say.
“As in raped?”
“Um. Yes.” I put both my hands down on her desk and lean forward, facing her completely, giving her my full attention. Janet is more of an expert in this area than I ever will be, and she needs to know that I sincerely value her opinion.
“Is this your first?”
“It is indeed. That’s why I’m here. I need a second opinion. An expert opinion.”
She rotates in her chair and sets the open folder down on her desk. There is a sense of confidence with a hint of authority about her. My envy deepens.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, the thing is that I believe she sells her body for cash to buy dope. She doesn’t think the police would care about what happened to her.”
“Is she a prostitute?”
“Yes and no. I think she just fell off the wagon a little bit.”
“Don’t be surprised if you are never able to convince her to report her rapist. Many times, prostitutes are ashamed of what happens to them. They believe that because they offer sex in exchange for money and drugs, they aren’t worth the police’s time. They also believe that their profession brings this on them—an occupational hazard, you might say. Why do you even bother? You should pass her on to a starving psychologist. Don’t you have enough rich clients with eating disorders or addictions to plastic surgery?”
“What’s your problem? I came here to hear your professional opinion, not to be ridiculed.”
“Look, Ashley, I know you, all right? It’s hard for me to believe that you care about a junkie prostitute. Can’t your mother send you better patients? There are plenty of us here to deal with the real problems of society.”
“You know, I’m trying to do my job and do it well. But if you can’t see that, then just enjoy your lunch.” Every wrinkle on my forehead becomes animated. Humiliation is not what I feel. I’m angry that she can’t see me for who I am. It’s easy for her to hide behind her family’s social status: look at me, I’m poor, I came from nothing, yet I pushed myself through college, and I did it all on my own. I’m special.
I should have never come here. I snatch my folder from the desk and start heading out the door without saying good-bye.
“The best way to get her to open is to tell her that you are there to help her, not judge her. She needs to know, without a doubt, honest to God, you care about her and her predicament. She isn’t just a job for you. Make her understand that if she doesn’t report her rapist, he will do the same thing to another girl or multiple girls. Make her understand that she has the power to stop this from happening again.”
I stop at the door, the folder clenched between my fingers as if it were a treasure to protect. My spine flexes, my mouth tastes bitter, and I know that despite Janet’s obvious peace offering, I’m still offended.
Janet stands up as her fingers dive into a little plastic container next to her notebook. “Here, give her my card, and keep one for yourself in case you have any more questions.” She offers me a smile, her hand stretched out toward me. My muscles relax. I step back into her office to take the card from her hand. “Thanks,” I say and leave her office with a slight nod of my head.
Olivia
Tuesday
I’m sitting on the bench at the Old Town Amtrak station, peeling the paint off the wood with my fingers. I know every carving on this bench by heart. Underneath me, an arrow pierces into a crooked heart with the monograms S + D everlastingly in the middle, proclaiming all young love eternal; to my right, the word “piece” claims a spot. Even though English is not my first language, I suspect a high-school dropout meant to declare his demand for peace. I’m leaning against the announcement, “I was here BITCHES!!!” with three gradually enlarged exclamation points. A sea of dirty words occupies the seat to my right, and a few failed attempts at art are on my left. Between the wood panels, fossilized chewing gum mounds wait to be analyzed by future generations. I wonder if they’d rip out this bench and set it in a room full of professors and ask them to analyze it, like a classic artifact or poem, and then what kind of stories they would come up with.
I haven’t left any marks to commemorate my long hours spent here, but I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe when I shake off my self-loathing and find a better way to spend my unlimited time, I will carve my initials into one of the splintered planks. Some say admitting one’s problem is the first step to healing, but for now I like to come to this busy train station when Richard is at work and when I get fed up with Margit’s preaching about how I’m wasting my life. I don’t get sick of listening to her because I don’t agree with her; it’s because I do.
Today I have a lot to think about, but I’m trying to avoid the responsibility. So I came to this busy station again. It’s my favorite place to numb my mind by watching strangers get on and off the train. I recognize some of the regular commuters. I’ve been listening to their conversations, how they scold at their husband or push their girlfriends around. I watch mothers dragging their kids and imagine that if I had children, I’d never treat them so unkindly.
When I first came to the United States, I looked after a couple of cute kids as a nanny. I still remember the soft touch of the babies’ heads, the smell of their skin, and the little puff of hairs that tickle your face when you kiss the top of their heads. I remember how important I felt overseeing another breathing human being, someone’s irreplaceable child. I was good at it because I wanted to be good at it, so I consciously stepped up to the challenge. But the day I met Richard, all that changed. He was a dinner guest at a party hosted by the family I was working for at the time. Now, if I think back to all the coincidences of that night, I realize that it was a setup orchestrated by my employers.
Richard spent the entire evening with me, finished my every sentence, laughed at my every joke, and proclaimed his love for the same things I loved. We were the perfect match. He slipped right into my life like a glove on a hand.
For the next two months, we traveled to all the places I’d ever dreamed about as a kid, as if someone had handed him a list of my deepest dreams or my secret journal. We ate Ghirardelli ice-cream sundaes in San Francisco, drove up the coastline on the Pacific Coast Highway, and sat by the Hollywood sign, enclosed in an amorous, almost dreamlike bubble. We did this and so much more that made me feel incredibly special, like I was somebody. But the magic didn’t last forever. Once we signed the marriage documents, everything changed.
Without Richard, I’d probably be one of these train passengers, living my mundane life and trying to survive the dog-eat-dog life of Los Angeles. I’d probably be married to a guy who worked at a restaurant or sold A/C units, or to a firefighter or a cop. I’d have two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy would play soccer or tennis, be good at math, and build insane structures on Minecraft. The girl would ask me to sign her up for dance lessons that she would quit soon after because it was too girlish for her. Then she would take up roller-skating or skateboarding inst
ead. I’d spend months saving money to buy one of those electric motorcycles for her on Christmas and watch her surprised face when she unwrapped it with joy. I’d watch her ride fearlessly up and down the street in our suburban neighborhood. We’d have a dog or two, rescues from the local shelter. We’d eat steak and potatoes on Sunday nights and give the bones to the dogs. I’d be happy.
My cashmere coat and other expensive attire is in a Walmart bag next to me. I changed into a less attention-grabbing outfit in a restroom at a nearby gas station where I park my car before I walk to this train station. I learned the hard way that it was better to blend in than stand out. When I first discovered this buzzing, inner-city spot years ago, I failed to realize that my fine clothes and luxurious jewelry would draw unwanted attention. I was robbed at knife point. Richard doesn’t know about the assault because I replaced everything that was stolen—and because I didn’t tell him about it. He doesn’t approve of me leaving the house alone, unprotected. Proving him right and giving ground to his fears would result in only one thing. He’d lock me up at home like a canary.
I don’t have a death wish; at least I don’t think I do. So, after the attack, I did stay away from the bad part of downtown for a few months and started visiting parks with playgrounds in Brentwood, where the air is clearer, the trees are taller, the streets are cleaner, and the people are more centered. I watched children swinging and sliding, inserting my own imaginary kids into the picture. In another life, where I was a mother, I could have spent time here legitimately. But I’m not a mother. I’m a stalker, a weirdo parents look out for. It took me only a few visits to the playground without a child before the red flag went up with the overzealous mothers and superprotective nannies. I had to find a new place to pass my time if I wanted to avoid being arrested for stalking. I think it was for the best, anyway. My envy of all the happy families only made my heart ache.