Kill the Silence

by Monika Korra

  I was overwhelmed by the thought that someone was hiding in the apartment.

  “I need to brush my teeth,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse and hollow. Robin must have understood. He went with me, and we stood in the bathroom together, regarding each other in the mirror. I could see his pain and concern etched in the corners of his eyes and the sag around his mouth as he watched me quietly.

  As good as it felt to finally have my mouth clean, the anxiety gripped me again. For no good reason, I fixated on the kitchen cabinets, wondering if someone was hiding in there, preparing to spring out at me. I stood there working my tongue from one inside of my cheek to the other, my eyes tracing the same arc.

  “Water. I need a glass of water.”

  Robin made a move toward the kitchen, but I held up my hand.

  I walked into the kitchen. A few glasses sat in the wooden strainer. I looked at them and then at the cabinet nearest the sink. I took a deep breath and opened that door. Just glasses. A mix of them with their mouths upturned and downturned. I took one of the downturned ones, set it on the counter, and then flipped the rest of them inside the cabinet to match the one I’d taken. I let the tap run for a few seconds before filling the glass.

  I turned around and jumped. Robin stood in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s just—I didn’t hear you.”

  I sipped the water, and it was as if its contact reminded me that I had been desperately craving a shower for so many hours. I told Robin what I wanted and he nodded.

  “That’s a good idea. It will relax you.”

  Hiking up my pants to keep from tripping on them, I walked toward the bathroom. I got as far as the door. It was half-closed, and a panic ran through me. What if someone were in there? I put my hand on the doorknob, wondering if somehow I could pick up the vibration of another person’s presence in there. The knob was cold and still. Pulling my shirtsleeve over my hand, I used my forearm to edge the door more open. The lone window was frosted glass, and only a faint bit of light fell to the floor. I peered farther around the corner. In the vanity mirror I could see the shower curtain, a towel draped over the rod.

  I was wrong…he must be behind the shower curtain. No, not there either. I had to get into the shower, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone even to do such a simple thing. What if someone came in and attacked me in the shower?

  “I can’t do it alone,” I told Robin.

  His eyes narrowed in confusion. I knew he was so scared of saying or doing the wrong thing.

  “Can you come and sit with me?” I felt a bit of shame coloring my cheeks and heating my earlobes. But Robin smiled, looking grateful for now having something to do.

  “If you’re in here with me,” I said, strengthening my own will and Robin’s, “I’ll be able to do this. I just really need to feel clean right now.”

  After Robin pulled the curtain aside for me and I got in, the water thundered from the faucet into the tub. I bent to test it, then nudged the dial farther to the left before turning on the shower. Steam swirled, and I wondered if the water could ever be hot enough to really make me feel clean. Three body scrubs hung from the rack. I picked the largest one and lathered it up while I let the spray douse my face. I lathered and scrubbed, lathered and scrubbed, until I’d worked that first bar of soap into a small wafer.

  I asked Robin to bring me another bar. He handed it inside.

  I am too dirty. Someone is going to have to go to the store to get more soap, I thought.

  I plugged my ears and let the water thrum against my skull. I’d spent some time in the woods in cabins and tents, and I’d always loved the sound of gentle rain. This sound was more insistent, a bit of an irritant. My sense that the shower wasn’t doing any good added to that irritation. I’d been asking to take one since I arrived at the hospital. I was so desperate to feel clean, to get the men off of me, but as hard as I scrubbed, they were still on me and in me.

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Robin’s voice was tentative, rising at the end like he was asking me a question.

  “Answer what?” I asked. I realized that I was so preoccupied for a moment I’d forgotten all about my fear of being alone and that Robin was there with me. I’d long since turned the knob all the way to the left to all hot. I looked at my puckered hands and wondered how long I’d been in there. Had I drifted to sleep while standing?

  “I asked about your mother and father.”

  Robin liked my parents. They’d helped him pull off that surprise visit. My father had picked him up at the train station and my mother had managed to stay tight-lipped. I’d jokingly told her that I’d never forgive her for not, at the very least, telling me that I should have put on a nicer outfit.

  My skin was red and raw in spots. The hot water had run out, and retreating from the cold water, my blood had drawn a pale blanket over the rest.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” I shut off the water and watched as the last of it spiraled down the drain. I wondered how long it would take until the hot water tank would be full again.

  Robin handed a towel past the side of the curtain. While toweling off, I said, “It’s about dinnertime there, or will be soon.”

  I left it at that, as if it was just a matter of polite courtesy not to disturb someone’s mealtime.

  When I got into the living room, our head track-and-field coach, Coach Wollman, was seated on the couch. Kristine and Viktoria joined us. Coach Wollman stood, and I immediately slipped into my role as a member of his team. I tried to look him in the eyes, but I could only do so briefly. He sat back down, brushed his bangs aside, and said, “Kristine called me last night. I’m so sorry but so grateful that you’re here now.”

  He gave me a big, warm hug. That surprised me, and I was grateful in a way that I couldn’t have predicted.

  Unlike me and Bo, my coach back in Norway and a man I’d known for years, Coach Wollman and I had a more formal relationship. Maybe it was because of my poor language skills when I first arrived or just my natural respect for my elders, but I wasn’t comfortable opening up to him. I just didn’t know him that well at that point. Part of that had to do with experiences I’d had with teachers in school back home; part of it had to do more generally with the culture I was raised in.

  During my senior year in middle school, I’d sharpened my competitiveness to a hardened edge, both in the classroom and in my running and skiing competitions. I was shocked to learn that because I frequently earned top grades, along with my friend Ida, the other girls resented me. They accused me of breaking them down, making them feel bad about themselves because of what I was accomplishing. Worse, they spoke to their parents, and the parents spoke to the teachers, and soon I felt like I was a victim of my success. More precisely, I was a victim of janteloven, and the Ten Laws of Jante, a part of Norwegian/Scandinavian culture that places a greater emphasis on group conformity and harmony than it does on individual success. I’d been exposed to the Ten Laws of Jante, among them:

  You’re not to think you’re anything special.

  You’re not to think you know more than we do.

  You’re not to think anyone cares about you.

  The teachers seemed to agree that Ida and I were the culprits, that we were the ones who had created an unhealthy environment of competition. I saw it that I was competing with myself, trying only to maximize my abilities. The teachers worked hard to douse the fire inside me.

  I tried to keep my mask on, appear in class as though the teacher’s changed attitude toward me was having no effect. In truth, I went home and cried every day after classes were over, frustrated and blaming myself, letting my insecurities run me down. I was the one who was wrong. I should have known better. I wanted to be liked and I’d failed at being so.

  Back then my parents were there to set me straight. They didn’t believe in the Laws of Jante, never treated me in any way that revealed they even knew about them. Here’s what they
said to me:

  I couldn’t give up or give in.

  I was a hard worker.

  That was my nature.

  Someday all of that would pay dividends for me.

  I should trust myself and keep fighting.

  I should trust myself. I should trust myself. I should trust myself.

  Eventually, I had good relationships with teachers and coaches, but the idea of not standing out, not seeking preferential treatment, was hard for me to overcome.

  Now, my coach was here in my apartment, and he had broken through all of those barriers. I understood that he was there to help me through it—as a father figure; not as a coach, not as someone in charge of me or making strict demands on me, but as someone caring for me the person and not just me, the runner. What had happened to me defied the natural boundaries of our relationship, so he had to treat me differently than the rest of my teammates.

  “I want you to know that I, that we, all of us, want to help you in any way that we can. I know that it’s only been a few hours, but there are some things we can put in place to help you get through this. Anything, and I mean anything, you need you just let me or anyone on the staff know.”

  “That’s kind.” I looked over at Robin to gauge his reaction. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  My friends took turns filling in Coach Wollman and me on what they had been through that night. Right after I’d told Kristine to let go of me, she and Viktoria ran to George’s car.

  George hadn’t seen a thing—he was turned in the opposite direction and listening to music. It had taken him a few seconds to understand what was happening.

  Kristine yelled at him to follow the black SUV. By the time they were able to get George’s car started and turned around, the vehicle was nowhere in sight. They drove around frantically until they spotted a police car parked at a 7-Eleven. All three of them ran into the store and told the officer what had happened. Several other officers showed up as they were explaining. Each car went out searching for dark SUVs, pulling over several vehicles that matched the description.

  The first officer brought my friends back to the police station to take their statements, and kept them there afterward while other policemen continued searching for me. A bulletin went out to all the patrol units in the area, and the police called my cell phone over and over. Another person who’d been at our party had been standing outside and had also seen what happened, so everyone still at the party found out quickly that I had been abducted, and they, too, were frantic. While I was at the hospital, Kristine had told me that the hosts, two members of the men’s soccer team, called my cell phone repeatedly and later kept in touch with her for updates. They were going to visit us in an hour or so, and I hoped that they didn’t feel responsible for any of what had happened.

  There were no leads for almost an hour and a half, while my friends sat at the station not knowing if I was alive or dead. Then one break came through: As the police called my phone again and again, a male with a Spanish accent answered at 3:39 a.m.

  “Where is she?” the officer asked.

  The man, one of my rapists, offered the address of an intersection: Munger Avenue and Military Highway. He said that’s where they had just left me off, and I was fine.

  Except the address was wrong. The two streets didn’t intersect. No one knew whether he provided a wrong address just to throw the police off, or whether he just didn’t know the area. Fortunately, one officer did know the area well and made his best guess and raced over there. That’s when they found me.

  As my friends talked, I began to shiver. In some ways I was glad to hear the other side of the story, but suddenly one thought consumed my mind.

  I don’t know why it was that I suddenly felt the urge to say exactly what was on my mind without editing it, without weighing the pros and cons and costs and benefits.

  “It’s my parents. They don’t know yet. I haven’t told them. I don’t know how or if I can. At least not yet.”

  Coach Wollman pinched his brow. “I can’t imagine how difficult that would be. I can call them if you like. Maybe if it came from someone at the university.”

  It was a nice offer, and it would have been so easy for me to just hand him that phone and be free of the burden, but I couldn’t. How awful would it be for them to get this kind of news from a stranger who didn’t even speak their language? I had to do it.

  Coach Wollman left soon, repeating that he would be there to help in any way that I needed. He also took on the important role of acting as a liaison with the police or any other agency or individual that wanted or needed me to do something. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to help all of us.

  Once Coach Wollman was gone, I told everyone I needed a moment alone. I sat on the bed and stared at Robin’s cell phone for a long time. I dialed my family’s number, but couldn’t hit the “call” button. I wondered if seeing his number show up instead of mine would alarm them. I was glad that he’d been in touch with them before.

  I imagined a few opening words and how they might sound. There was no easy way. I just had to be as open and honest as I could. If I established the tone, then they’d follow up the same way.

  I took a few more deep breaths and hit “call.” While the phone rang, I stood and walked over to my dresser. I looked at a photo of my mother and father, one that had been taken at a party for my “crazy” aunt Gerd. I’m really close to my aunt, one of the craziest, and warmest, people you’ll ever meet, forever making us all laugh. In the photo my parents were standing outside, the low-hanging branches of a tree like a canopy above them. Their smiles revealed a genuine happiness, and my mother rested her head on my father’s shoulder. They looked so young, posing like I’d seen so many of my friends do with their heads inclined. Mentally, I tried to merge their faces, to see what parts of me I’d gotten from each of them.

  I heard my father’s voice and I forced good cheer into mine. “Hello, Dad. It’s me.”

  My father sensed immediately that something was wrong. “Monika, are you okay?”

  “Yes. Is Mom there? Can she get on with you?”

  I heard the rustling sound of him holding the phone to his chest. I tried to picture him standing there, dressed in a favorite sweater, the dark green one with the roll collar, and his Levi’s jeans. For some reason, the image of him standing there, leaning against the kitchen counter, his legs crossed casually in front of him, tore at me.

  I didn’t mean to, but I started crying. “Everything is okay. Don’t be afraid; I’m home now with Robin and the girls, but something bad happened—”

  I heard my mother’s voice on the other end: “Oh no!”

  I swallowed hard and said, “I was raped—”

  I heard their sharp intake of breath, a gasp. Then my mother said, “Nei, for faen!”

  I flinched. I’d never heard my mother swear before. At any other time I would have been delighted, but knowing that I’d shocked her to the point that she lost control made me wish that I’d thought all of this through better.

  With no point in turning back, I rushed ahead with the story. In my mind it was as if I were two people—one me was telling them about the party, the men, the SUV, while another me itemized a list of worries: Were they afraid that they would never get back the daughter they knew and loved? Did they think I would be ruined forever by this? Were they going to regret supporting my decision to come to the U.S.?

  As I continued the story, the two selves merged. I knew that if I was going to save them more anguish, I had to reassure them that I was going to be okay. I just kept talking and trying to sound confident, building my case strong syllable by strong syllable. I didn’t want to pause at all, to let any sobs or shudders punctuate my testimony.

  I underestimated my parents.

  “Monika, we’re so glad that you survived. You’re going to get through this!” my mother said, enunciating each word with a precision and strength that signaled my body to stand straighter. “We can hear in
your voice that you are strong.”

  I ran my thumb over the photograph, nearly feeling the soft give of their skin.

  “No one is going to destroy you in this way. You’ve been fighting your whole life. We’ve all been tested. Look at everything you’ve done to this point. No one can take that from you.”

  My mother’s words were just what I needed to hear. Both of my parents were completely clear when they spoke: They supported me; they believed that I would make it through, and they were just so happy that I was alive.

  As my mother spoke, I kept saying softly, “Thank you and I know,” an inadequate expression of my gratitude for what they were saying to me then and what they’d shown me my whole life. I wanted to tell them again how thankful I was that they had trusted me to come here, that they believed that I had made the right choices all along.

  I asked them if they had talked to Anette lately and how she was doing. I wasn’t sure what the best thing would be, for me to call her or for them to do it. We agreed that they would talk to her first, and then I would call her after some hours of sleep. I was so tired that I struggled holding the phone up to my ear.

  Robin poked his head into the bedroom to check up on me; I gave him a smile and waved him in as I ended the conversation with my parents. I was so relieved that they hadn’t gotten overly emotional with me. I was so physically and emotionally exhausted by that point that I lay on my bed. Robin lay down next to me, and I repeated my mom’s words to him: “We are going to get through this.”

  He smiled and kissed me gently on my head. “But first some sleep?” he half asked, half demanded. I put the phone on my night table and turned over on my stomach with one hand on Robin’s chest. We were both so tired, but we didn’t seem ready to close our eyes. I kept looking at him; he kept staring out into the open. A few minutes later Robin’s phone rang. It was my mom, telling me that they were looking at tickets.