Exit, Pursued by a Bear

by E. K. Johnston

  “I’ll leave another,” she says, and fishes it out of the pocket next to her gun. She puts it on the table. “Call me if you decide to move ahead with the investigation.”

  I nod again, and even though she has been nothing but helpful, I suddenly want her to leave as fast as possible. She takes a few more seconds to ask Polly if we need anything, but Caledon has already gone shopping for us, and then Officer Plummer goes. When we’re alone, pretending privacy even though the doorway to the hall is open, I take several deep breaths.

  “Well?” Polly asks when I have regained control of myself.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. I think about my dream, about Clara telling me that I’ll complete the card. Is that my subconscious way of telling me that I will be the class pregnancy? Is it the drugs and the emotional cocktail burning through my system?

  “Don’t you want to catch him?” Polly asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “But think about what that means.”

  It hangs between us for about five seconds before Polly’s eyes widen and she realizes what she’s accidentally wished for.

  “I didn’t mean . . . ,” she starts, and then stops.

  “I know,” I tell her. “I know exactly what you meant. And I do want him caught. I just can’t think about it until I have to.”

  “You know that either way, any way, I’m with you, right?” she says.

  “I do,” I tell her. “And believe me, I will probably take full advantage of that.”

  “I just . . . I feel so bad that I didn’t notice,” she says. “I was right beside you.”

  “He was very smart about it,” I say. She flinches. I’m past flinching. “I mean, if I’d stayed with you, we would have thought I was tired, and Amy would have taken me back to the cabin. He waited until I left the group, and I was only going to the garbage cans.”

  “I still feel terrible,” she says. “And Amy feels awful. She had a full-on panic attack after the ambulance took you away. I couldn’t stay, because Caledon was leaving to follow in the van. Mallory was with her, though.”

  “Have you heard anything from them?” I ask. It is much easier to talk about other people’s trauma, even though I realize on some level that it is connected to mine.

  “You can’t have your phone on in the hospital,” she tells me. “And I’ve only left to go to the bathroom.”

  “You’re the best, ever,” I tell her. I don’t tell her that enough.

  “I know,” she says in her smug voice. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, though.

  There’s another knock, and then a candy striper comes in with our lunch. Technically, they should only be feeding me, but part of the way the hospital staff is showing how bad they feel for me is by feeding Polly too.

  “You slept through breakfast,” she says, setting down the trays. They smell unappetizing, and yet I am weirdly hungry. “So I came here first when the lunches were ready.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I don’t know her name, even though she brought food yesterday too. She’s not wearing a name tag, and she doesn’t introduce herself, just leaves us to our food.

  Polly takes the cover off her tray and grimaces.

  “And we thought camp food was bad!” I say. She hands me the button that will put my bed up into sitting position. I can get out of bed whenever I want to, and I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. They’ve changed my sheets twice, but there’s still blood on the padding when I get up. Polly doesn’t even hesitate before picking it up, rolling it into a ball, and replacing it while I head for the washroom. It makes me teary again, and I promise myself that I will spend the rest of my life making this up to her. I am careful in the bathroom, determined not to fall or have a breakdown. What I really want is a shower and real clothes, but that will have to wait.

  “Do you think it’s weird that I can laugh and joke?” I ask when I come back into the main room. I assume there is a lot of therapy in my future, but I’d like to have some things sorted out before I start.

  “No,” she says. “It’s how people cope. I mean, I don’t think you should do it forever, but it’s okay for now.”

  —

  The only gynecologist at Parry Sound Regional Hospital is male. I was unconscious the first time he examined me, and since then the hospital has been scrupulous in ensuring that the only people who come through my door are female. When he comes into my room, it is distressing how relieved we all are when I fail to completely panic.

  “Hermione,” he says. “I’m Dr. Shark. How are you feeling?”

  I haven’t had time to get sick of people asking me that yet. I imagine I will. Fortunately, I know that when he asks, he means medically and not emotionally.

  “I’m still bleeding, but the cramps have stopped,” I say.

  “Good, good.” He nods. “Are you up to talking about a pregnancy test?”

  I am really glad that Officer Plummer reminded me of it first. I can think of it as being legal, not personal, and that helps me cope.

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’ll do my best.”

  “You are doing very well.” I wonder if he says this just because I’m not screaming and crying and climbing the walls. He clears his throat. “Emergency contraceptives only prevent pregnancy if fertilization has not already occurred, do you understand that?”

  “Yes.” Now it’s my turn to nod. “It means that if I was already pregnant, I’d stay pregnant.”

  “Yes,” he continues. “So there is a possibility that conception already took place before you could take the medication, in which case a pregnancy test would be positive.”

  “When can I take the test?” I ask.

  “I would recommend waiting six to seven days,” he says. “Two weeks, for the best chance at accurate results.

  I deflate a little bit, but I don’t think he notices. Two whole weeks. It seems like hell. But there is no way I am taking a test that might be wrong. I only want to do this once.

  “I have to start school on Tuesday,” I tell him. Maybe my parents will let me skip.

  “I would recommend taking this week off,” he says. “From school and from other activities.”

  Thank goodness for small mercies. The doctor continues with a bunch of questions about my regular doctor and transferring records and consent forms, and I answer like he’s a waiter and I’m picking between fries or a side salad. You say the stupidest things when doctors tell you that you might be pregnant without your consent or memory of how it happened. Polly never lets go of my hand.

  “I’ve also submitted your recommendation for psychiatric evaluation.” He manages to say that gently, which probably takes years of practice. Maybe he was taught how in med school.

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s good to know.”

  For the first time, he is awkward. Parry Sound is not a large place. Like Officer Plummer, he is probably not used to this. When professionalism ends, he can’t stop seeing me as this tiny girl, this victim of terrible things. I want so hard to prove him wrong, but I think I have forgotten how.

  “Your name is really Shark?” I blurt, and the moment breaks.

  “My whole life,” he replies.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Polly says, the dismissal clear and polite. I’m always impressed that she can do that to grown-ups. “We’ll ring for the nurse if we have any questions.”

  “Someday you’re going to have to teach me how to do that,” I tell her after Dr. Shark leaves.

  “My secrets come with me to my grave,” she says. It dawns on me, for the first time, that having Polly for a best friend is about to become more important than it ever was before.

  CHAPTER 9

  LABOUR DAY WEEKEND MARKS THE end of summer. It’s not the last time people go to their cottages before winter sets in, but it’s the last time that it really feels like a holiday. When I was little, we used
to drive home on Monday night after it got dark, eking as much summer out of Muskoka as we could. I would sleep in the car, and Dad would carry me inside when we got home. Mum would lay out my clothes and pack my lunch, and when I got up at seven for the first day of school, it would be almost like the whole summer was a dream. When I started cheerleading, Labour Day weekend became the bus ride home from Camp Manitouwabing, full of sunburned faces, tired shouting, and as we got back into cell coverage, frenetic texting. This year, as Caledon drives down the 400 in thick Holiday Monday traffic, it’s more like a never-ending odyssey into the unknown.

  Polly sits up front. I’m still tired, so Caledon made a kind of nest for me on the bench seat in the middle of the van. I’m sitting sideways with my legs up, leaning against the window. I think it might actually be more comfortable than the hospital bed, but maybe it just smells better.

  “Have you heard from your parents?” Polly asks.

  I have my phone again, so they could call if they were on the ground. They should be just over Newfoundland right now, if my guess is correct.

  “They called my aunt, and she texted me,” I say.

  I thought my phone would go nuts once service coverage was more reliable, but aside from my aunt no one has sent me any messages. There is nothing. It occurs to me they don’t know what to say. Usually Leo is so good at breaking the quiet, even when I’d rather he didn’t. I can’t decide if I’m upset by his silence now, or relieved.

  “How’s your aunt?” Polly asks.

  “Frantic,” I tell her. “But that’s hardly news.”

  Aunt Lina lives in Toronto and thinks that anything north of the 401 is completely uncivilized. She also doesn’t own a car, which is why she didn’t brave the wilds to come to Parry Sound to make sure I wasn’t at the mercy of some village herbalist. In her text, she had said she’d be able to get up late Sunday, but since we had already planned to come home on Monday, I’d texted her back and told her not to worry.

  What a stupid thing to say. Of course she’s worried. Words have changed since Saturday, and I am still catching up.

  “Mum and Dad should be home tonight,” I say. “If traffic doesn’t improve, they might beat us.”

  “We’ll make better time once we get off the highway,” Caledon says. “Are you girls hungry?”

  “I can wait until Superburger,” says Polly hopefully.

  “Superburger was my plan, but we can do whatever you like,” says Caledon. One of the reasons she is such a great coach is because she insists that we eat like real people, not rabbits, and earn our body shape through hard work. She hasn’t ever cut anyone for gaining weight, which I’ve heard happens at other schools, even if you gain the weight naturally by growing or something. When I was in grade ten, she sidelined a girl for losing ten pounds without being able to explain it, and it turned out to be an eating disorder.

  There is something very comforting in thinking about Caledon and the past.

  “We should talk about next week,” Polly says.

  “You mean the opening assemblies and stuff?” I say. It’s business, but hardly as usual.

  Caledon’s eyes flicker in the rearview mirror. I know she’s making sure I’m not about to have a panic attack. I wonder if they’re all worried that the longer I go without breaking down, the more torrential the fallout will be. To be honest, I have some concerns myself. But I don’t remember what happened. Unless I think about it, or someone reminds me, I have trouble remembering that I’m a victim at all. That makes it hard to act like one. I kind of don’t mind, because I think the alternative would involve never leaving my bedroom ever again.

  “Just pull my lifts from the routine on Monday and hold an emergency practice at lunch to tweak the routines for the rest of the week,” I say. It’s not the first time we’ve had to do something like that. People get injured at camp, sometimes.

  “Okay,” Caledon says. “What about after that?”

  She’s asking, as nicely as possible, if I am going to quit.

  “Dr. Shark said a week off was all I needed,” I tell her. I really, really hope that Doctor Shark is right.

  “Physically,” she says. She’s not saying something else. I can’t figure out what it is.

  “Hermione,” Polly says, twisting in her seat to look at me. “The only person who knows the truth about who raped you is the guy that did it.”

  I nod.

  “That means it could have been anyone,” she says. “And we have six suspects on our—”

  I gag and clamp a hand over my mouth. Before I can manage a word, Caledon expertly cuts across two lanes of traffic, slows, and opens the rolling door on the right side of the van with the press of a button. I fumble with the seat belt, and then the blankets, and finally settle for just throwing myself towards the door. Polly catches me, and then I’m on my knees in the drainage ditch, heaving up my breakfast while Polly holds my hair back.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “No, you’re right,” I manage between heaves. “It could be any one of them.”

  My mouth tastes like something crawled into it and died. Caledon can’t get out because of the traffic, so she tosses Polly a bottle of Gatorade. I take a swig and spit it out.

  “God,” I whisper, and Polly leans in. I bite my lip and don’t lean back. “What if it’s Leo?”

  “Look at it this way.” Polly is so good at being insincere. Most people never know when she is faking, pretending to feel one way and actually feeling another. But I do. “All the boys on our team are terrible bluffers. We’ll know as soon as one of them touches you.”

  “Yeah.” I am not like Polly. Everything I feel is right on my skin. “But one of them will have to touch me.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” The façade shifts, just a little, but she doesn’t break out of it. Not quite. “For now, let’s get off the highway, back home, and through this week.”

  She doesn’t mean “through the first week of school.” She means “the time before it becomes possible to test for pregnancy.” Words are changing and I am becoming an expert at translation.

  “Okay,” I say, and stand up. I get back into the van, clutching my Gatorade, and arrange myself in the seat. Caledon has to wait a while for a break in the traffic to get back onto the highway, but before long we are back in the fast lane, heading south.

  I manage to make it to Superburger without puking again. There are about a million people there, so we eat on the grass, on one of the blankets from my nest, and it’s almost like it’s a real holiday weekend. But there’s a spot of blood on my skirt when I go to the bathroom, and Polly has to riffle through my suitcase to get a change. I’m catching up, remembering how I should act even though I can’t remember why. By the time we leave, I can feel the fear creeping in, sliding over the sunny grass and echoing in the shrieks of the children who run around in the parking lot, making the most of that last bit of summer freedom. Once I’m back in the van, closed in and surrounded by people I trust, I feel like I can breathe again.

  This does not bode well.

  We pull into Palermo just after five o’clock. Caledon stops to pick up Florry on our way into town. She’d been staying with Mallory’s family, and they live on a farm outside of town. It wouldn’t make sense for Caledon to drive all the way back after dropping us off.

  Florry throws herself at me as soon as the van door opens. I realize that I have no idea what they’ve told her, what they’ve told anyone. Caledon usually plays it straight, but Florry is ten, and I’m not sure I want to be the one who tells her what happened. Polly and Caledon both watch me while Florry hugs me to death, and once again I do not break down. I mentally check off getting hugged by a ten-year-old girl as something I can still do.

  Mallory is standing outside the van, staring at me. I can tell she feels the same guilt as Polly, except worse since she was my c
abin mate and because she and Polly are strong in different ways.

  “Hi,” I say. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

  Mallory swallows, clearly on the edge of tears, and nods. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says. “I hope I see you soon. At school, I mean. I’ll get your homework, if you like.”

  That’s Mallory. I should have been a better friend to her. Like Polly, she would walk through fire for a teammate. Unlike Polly, she’d be terrified the whole time.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that. It’s only for the first week.”

  Florry does up her seat belt, and Mallory closes the door. She stands in the driveway, waving, until we turn at the end of the laneway.

  “You’re not going to quit, are you?” asks Florry as we turn back onto the main road. “On the bus on the way home, Jenny said you’d quit.”

  “I’m not going to quit, Florry.” I look up and see that Polly has turned around again, and that Caledon is looking at me in the mirror. “I am not going to quit.”

  CHAPTER 10

  IT TAKES POLLY ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES to convince Caledon that we’ll be okay if she leaves us at my house until my parents get home. There’s a message on the answering machine that says they’re leaving the airport. Even with traffic, they should still be home in about an hour. I can last an hour in my own house.

  “Florry has school tomorrow too,” Polly says, in a final effort to convince Caledon that other people need her more than I do.

  “We’ll be fine,” I promise.

  Caledon isn’t completely thrilled, but she does nod. “Come on, Florry,” she says. “We have to get you organized for the morning.”

  I fight down a wave of guilt. Caledon expected to have Sunday and the holiday to get herself and her daughter ready for the new school year. Now it’s after dinner on Monday.

  “Good night, Hermione!” Florry says. She’s the only one who is acting like nothing is wrong, and I kind of want to keep her around forever. But she does have to sleep sometime and, frankly, so do I.