by Monika Korra
“We’ll be there as soon as we can.” My father’s tone was adamant. I knew that they both wanted to be at this place with me, but I didn’t know how I might manage that. As strong and as clear-minded as they seemed now, who knew how they might respond when the shock wore off and the hours of travel weighed on them? Worse, I wasn’t sure what state I was going to be in.
I stood up and began pacing the room. I was determined to face this all head-on, but the “this” I wanted to take on was my immediate future. I had exams coming up. I wasn’t going to waste a semester’s worth of hard work. Hosting my parents—who had never been to campus—would mean another distraction on top of a mental pile of others. It worried me also that I could control myself, that I could create a kind of necessary illusory world for myself where those events were neatly tucked away somewhere. This wasn’t like it had been when I was a child and Anette and I engaged in some kind of game of pretend that my parents could inadvertently step into and end. The consequences of this game ending were too serious for me to risk letting too many other players participate. And I needed to be able to do whatever I had to do to push through exams and papers. I had to finish up the semester strong, act as if this thing was already behind me, like an assignment that I had already completed and could now forget about.
I felt as if my carefully conducted and constructed life would topple if just one new piece was added. As a habitual maker of lists and setter of goals, I couldn’t see adding my parents and making sure that they were comfortable and cared for to studying, dealing with the police, following up with health care and medications, getting the necessary sleep, returning my life to normalcy. In the end, that was what I felt I needed the most—to go back to how things had been twenty-four hours earlier. Having my parents in town would only be more disruptive. Plus, I was scheduled to go home in ten days. I had to stick with that plan. While I didn’t explain all of that to my mother and father, eventually they relented. I’d see them soon. I was being well cared for. If anything changed, I would let them know.
After I spoke with my parents that second time, I decided to call my sister. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep before I talked to her. Somehow I sensed that this call wasn’t going to go as well. I thought of how often my parents had trusted me, but with a sister, things would be different. She didn’t have to trust me. There was something different at stake in telling her, something that I couldn’t completely understand on a rational level. As well as my parents knew me and as close as we were, things were different with a sister.
When we were young, I was always the tagalong—the littlest and youngest girl who wanted to be doing whatever her sister and her sister’s friends were up to. Once, Anette and her friends decided to walk to a playground in town. They ran and skipped and giggled most of the way, while I trotted along resolutely, as fast as my four-year-old legs could carry me. Once there, the older girls took all the swings, pumping and kicking furiously as they rose in the air above me. The only other equipment was a climbing apparatus—a horizontal ladder with a series of rings.
I climbed onto a metal step and jumped, my hand barely grazing the first ring. I tried again and again, squatting down until my bottom touched my heels and then springing up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach them. I stood on that small platform and looked down. Beneath each ring, a succession of kids’ feet had worn away the fine gravel in a series of dark ovals. I decided that instead of trying to reach the rings, I’d just jump from dark oval to dark oval, doing a series of standing long jumps like I’d once seen somewhere.
That’s when the other girls noticed me. Toril, a pigtailed blonde, squealed and pointed at me, laughing. She grunted loudly as she mocked my jumps and collapsed to the ground. She then stood and pretended that she couldn’t reach the rings, though they were easily in her reach.
Anette came over to me. She hoisted me off the ground so that I could grasp the first of the rings. I hung there for a moment before working my way across.
My sister stood with her arms folded across her chest and a glint in her eye and said to Toril: “Your turn.”
Toril squinted into the sun, looking first at Anette, then at the equipment, and then at me. She walked back to the swings. The other two girls got off theirs and joined Anette and me. That’s how it was with Anette. She didn’t have to say or do a lot, but she always let me know that she had my best interests at heart when it really mattered. Later, she’d be the one to guide me once her body and then mine began to change; she let me in on secrets involving her first innocent encounters with boys, what it was like to be in love with her Jonas.
As much as it meant to me that my parents were so proud of me getting a scholarship to SMU, it meant something different when at my farewell party Anette took advantage of a quiet moment and sat in a chair next to me. She put her hand in mine and said, “You deserve this.”
“Everyone seems to be having a good time.”
She laughed and playfully nudged me with her shoulder.
“Not just this. All of it. You know I admire you for being so brave. For always going forward.”
I wondered as I dialed just how she’d view this setback, if that was indeed what it might seem to be to her or to me.
For a few moments after I told her, she didn’t speak at all. I thought that maybe we had been disconnected. I sat and listened to the fuzzy interference, trying to picture her. She cried more easily than me, had the habit of tilting her head back when she did, as if the tears could return to their source.
To fill the void, I asked, “How are things with you? Have you been doing your shopping for the holiday?”
She started to answer my question but lapsed into silence. I heard her sigh and say, “Are you okay? You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Robin and Kristine. They have to take care of you. Let them help you.”
I knew it was ripping her apart that she couldn’t be there to be the one to help. I assured her that they were and that I was okay.
“I love you so much, Monika.”
In my family, those were “big words,” ones that we didn’t always use. Anette was the lone one among us who could drop her natural reserve and shyness to open up like that. She’d been making an effort to teach the rest of us to express our feelings.
“If you need something, just ask.”
She spoke the last of those words in a husky, tear-torn voice and then added through a heavy sigh, “Please.”
Like my parents, Anette wanted every assurance that I was okay and also offered to come and, as she put it, “retrieve me.”
I laughed at her use of that expression. “You make me sound like I’m something you left behind, the keys to your car or something.”
“Don’t. Not with me.”
My little joke had failed, and somehow that comforted me. Even though Anette and I had been living thousands of miles apart, the bond between us was still as strong as ever. Our lives had taken different directions, but we’d promised each other that miles, men, and nothing beginning with any letter of the alphabet would come between us. I knew that if I could count on anyone in this situation, it would be Anette. Still, I wanted to look out for her as well, do what I could to lessen her anxiety.
I assured Anette that I was making an effort to get help from others. I also asked her to tell Jonas what had happened. I knew that I was asking a lot of her. She and Jonas had broken up months before. I couldn’t bear to speak with him, not because I was upset with him, but because he had been like a brother to me and I hated to bring him bad news. I knew that he and Anette were still speaking intermittently, and I held out some dim hope that they would patch things up again.
Without hesitation, Anette agreed to do as I asked.
After we hung up, I decided that now I could finally sleep. I had been awake for more than thirty hours and thought the rest would do me some good. But not long afterward, I woke up gasping for breath.
I thought I could escape, but th
ey were right there in my nightmare. My back was drenched in sweat and my heart rate felt like it was rattling my rib cage. It was so hard to breathe, and I couldn’t even imagine trying to go back to sleep. So I got up out of bed to remove the chance of falling asleep again by accident. I assured Robin I was going to be okay and that he needed some rest if he was going to be able to help me. He nodded and was likely asleep by the time I settled into a chair in the living room.
I have to work on my final Sports Management paper, anyway, I thought.
I sat at my computer desk with my hands on the keyboard and tried to form coherent thoughts. About sports management.
“Electronic Arts chairman Larry Probst was elected to a four-year term as USOC chairman, taking over for Peter Ueberroth in 2008.”
I spaced out for a moment and had to bring myself back to the task at hand.
“He was going to help with Chicago 2016’s bid for the summer Olympics.”
What if they actually know where I live, like they said in the car? What if they come here?
I pushed my chair back and went to the front door to check the lock. At odd intervals through the rest of the day I repeated the act. Then I walked over to first Kristine’s and then Viktoria’s room. I stood outside the door and listened to the sound of their regular breathing. I was grateful that they were able to sleep. I knew that they had to be exhausted from worry and stress. I worried about what effect all this was going to have on them.
A few hours later, just after sunset, I decided we all needed something to lift our spirits. I called George and asked him if he would mind coming by. A few minutes later, he knocked on the door.
“What’s up?” he asked. “How’re you doing?”
“Redbox,” I said. “We all need it.”
While Robin rounded up the other girls, I went back into my room. I picked up the bag with the clothes I’d been given.
“Let’s go,” I said when I joined the others in the living room.
Robin frowned and pointed at the bag, “What’s—”
“You’ll see,” I told him. “This will be good.”
George walked outside and over to his car, but I said, “No.”
Everyone looked at me, their faces concerned.
“Sorry,” I said, apologizing for having sounded so shrill. “I just feel like walking.”
We headed toward a convenience store a few blocks away. A couple stood at the Redbox dispenser scanning the listings.
“Over here.” I nodded toward the far side of the building, where the lights from the gas pumps cast a slanted shadow toward a Dumpster.
I pulled the T-shirt the nurse had given me to wear out of the bag. The nurse was right; it was best that I never see those clothes again. I pointed at the Dumpster and George trotted toward it and lifted its lid.
I tried to ball up the T-shirt, but it parachuted to the ground when I threw it.
“Let me try,” Robin said. He wound up like he was going to hit his serve, but the shirt fell short of the mark.
For the next few minutes, we all took turns trying to throw the paper bag and the clothes into the Dumpster, oohing and aahing and laughing at our near and distant misses. Finally, I chucked the bag underhand as high as I could. I stood and watched as it arched skyward and disappeared above the lights. Then I heard a satisfying thump as it found its target.
George ran toward me, his palm in the air, and I smacked it and smiled and did a little victory dance. I ran up to the Dumpster, lifted its screeching lid, and slammed it home. The boom surprised us, and I said, “Let’s run!”
We took off sprinting across the parking lot, laughing while gas pumpers stared and either shook their heads or smiled. We stopped a block away from the apartment, all of us giggling, expending whatever stress and nervous energy was still in our systems.
“The movie,” Kristine said.
“We’ve got something,” Viktoria said. “I’m not going back there. People will think I’m crazy.”
—
WHEN WE GOT back to the apartment, we all sat in the living room and watched the movie 27 Dresses. I wanted to see something lighthearted, and what could be better than the story of a woman who’d been a bridesmaid that many times? Besides, James Marsden wasn’t bad to look at. But I had a hard time following the plot of the movie, and it was as if at times the sound faded out completely. I could see the actor’s mouths moving, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
The same was true of what was going on offscreen as well. Robin and I sat on the couch next to each other, wrapped in a blanket. Kristine and Viktoria did the same. I exchanged silly looks as bits of microwave popcorn slid down the slopes of their raised knees. The thought of eating anything made me nauseated.
Kristine scowled at us playfully. “Now I’m going to have to pay the maid extra.”
I was about to tell her that we didn’t have a maid, that we had never had one, when I heard everyone else laugh. Why hadn’t I gotten the joke? Why was it that I had this feeling that I was walking into every conversation they had after it had started?
Robin and I sat and watched as the movie’s credits scrolled along. I could sense that something was troubling him, but how could it not be? Later that night, he stayed over. We snuggled under the blankets. I was wearing a T-shirt and my underwear. I reached behind me and was surprised to feel the rough fabric of Robin’s jeans. I reached up higher, and he still had on his team-issued SMU fleece jacket.
“Aren’t you hot?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he turned his head away and said, “I’m just tired. I have to get some sleep.”
“You’ll be roasting and it won’t be a good sleep.”
Normally, Robin’s body melted against mine when we slept. Tonight I could feel the tension in his body. I rolled over and propped myself up on my elbow.
His eyes brimmed with tears, and I realized what he was trying to do.
“It’s all right. The thing that happened in the car has nothing to do with us. I’m not afraid of you. Nothing’s changed. Not for me.”
Robin nodded halfheartedly. His eyes darted around the room. A couple of times it looked as if he was going to say something, but each time he stopped.
“What is it? You can tell me. Robin, please.”
His head moved to the side in a barely perceptible shake, like he was trying not to stare rudely at a couple having an argument at a table near ours.
“Like I said. I’m very tired. That’s all. Tired.”
I could see he had a hard time believing me, but I meant it. Not for one minute did I associate my rape with my relationship. It was a wholly separate compartment in my mind; these were bad men. They didn’t care about me or even know anything about me; they just wanted to overpower a woman whom they saw as defenseless. They were vicious and cruel. Robin was kind and gentle. Some men were good. Some men were bad. I wanted to respect what Robin was feeling, so I didn’t press him any further. Only later, when I woke up briefly and Robin was next to me, still fully clothed but on top of the covers, did I wonder about how things had changed for him. Glad that exhaustion prevented any further thoughts, I hugged a pillow to me, grateful for the small comfort it offered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Focus
When you’re an athlete, your mind and your body exist in a kind of schizoid relationship. At times you have to be hyperaware of every message your body is sending—whether it’s hungry, tired, sore, in pain, feeling great. At other times, you have to block those messages out entirely and just gut it out, and keep asking more and more of your body even though it might not have much left to give. In training, there’s a razor-thin line between overtraining—doing damage to your tissues that your body can’t adequately heal from—and undertraining—not pushing yourself hard enough to tear down cells. The reason we get stronger and faster is that we tear down and repair our bodies constantly. If you don’t keep pushing, your body will reach a state of homeostasis—it will adapt to that present
condition and stay there. Things are a bit different for a race. You prepare and build up strength in training and then go out there and race knowing that if you push yourself as hard as you possibly can, you’re going to experience pain. For me the pain of regret, for not giving it my all in a race, was far worse than any of the physical pain I experienced in the race itself. Race pain is temporary; regret lingers.
—
I DIDN’T REALIZE it at the time, but my first serious running-related injury, toward the end of my freshman year at SMU, would pay dividends for me down the line. I’d been used to running with slight, nagging injuries before—sore hamstrings, calves, knees—but one day while doing a workout for track, I was nearly brought to tears by a sharp and searing pain radiating from somewhere between my hip and my groin. At first I just kept running—limping was more like it—but when it became clear that something was very wrong, I dragged myself into the infield. I tried to stand on my right leg, the noninjured one, but the pain was so bad that I collapsed onto the ground. I was able to hobble into the locker room, and eventually the doctors I saw determined that I had fractured a bone in my pelvis.
I was devastated. I wasn’t going to be able to run at all for the rest of the season and into the summer. Running was everything to me, and without it, would that mean that I was nothing? Worse, how was I going to occupy all the time and mental space that running filled? Without it, I knew that all kinds of negative thoughts might come rushing in.
When I went home to Norway at the end of my freshman year, my father helped put things in perspective for me. He told me that injuries were part of the process of being an athlete. They were one more obstacle you had to learn to overcome. It was a setback, yes, but how you responded to adversity was the real mark of who you were as a runner and as a person. Running wasn’t just something I did in hopes of having a career as a professional, he told me; the lessons I learned from it would help me no matter what I ended up doing to make a living and to live my life. He reminded me of the truth that often the site of a fracture ends up healing and being stronger than the rest of your bones. I could come back from that injury and be better, more determined, have a better perspective about how running fit into my life.